I Wait Til Tomorrow
by bulmablue-eyes
Summary: With the Watsons' baby on the way, Sherlock and John have settled into their own lives, away from each other. As they try to move on, though, they each find themselves a prisoner in the lives that have been built around them. Warning for domestic abuse. Please R&R
1. A Day In The Life

**I Wait Til Tomorrow**

 **Chapter 1 – A Day in the Life**

It was the weak October sunlight filtering through the crack in the curtains that woke him. Sherlock opened his eyes blearily, rolling over to look up at the ceiling, and lay for a moment, simply staring at the yellowing paint. The flat was silent, no sounds creeping under the door except for the creaking of the ancient central heating – no shower running, no sounds of John making tea and toast in the kitchen; nothing but the endless emptiness of the flat.

Sighing wearily, Sherlock threw the duvet off of himself and climbed slowly out of bed. He padded through his bedroom to the bathroom, not stopping to look into the empty living room before throwing his pyjamas off and into the laundry basket and climbing into the shower. He washed quickly and silently, barely even aware of his morning routine as he stepped out of the shower, brushed his teeth and shaved before walking back into his bedroom to dry off and pull on some clean pyjamas and a dressing gown.

Breakfast was a similarly automatic affair. He made himself two pieces of toast, staring at the kettle while the bread toasted and contemplating making himself a cup of tea, before he pushed it irritably aside and returned to waiting impatiently for his toast. He didn't eat much of it in the end, though, merely nibbling his way slowly through half a slice while he read the morning papers before throwing the remainder in the bin and pulling some chilled human tongues out of the fridge for that day's experiments.

He had been observing slices of tongue tissue under the microscope for three hours – looking for the varying effects of smoking on the structure of the cells dependent upon the number of cigarettes smoked per day – when Mrs Hudson knocked on the door with a perfunctory "Yoohoo", before walking through the door.

"Morning, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson called, grimacing as she glanced down at the tray of sliced tongue on the dining table. "Are you feeling better today, dear?"

"Better?" Sherlock repeated, glancing up at her. "There wasn't anything the matter with me."

"Come on, now." Mrs Hudson said. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he watched her flick the kettle on and pull two mugs – including John's – down from the cupboard to make a cup of tea. "I have got eyes, you know. I can see you've not been yourself lately. Not since you came back from that little trip that brother of yours took you on."

"It wasn't a trip. I was exiled for murder." Sherlock growled. "And I'm _fine_."

Mrs Hudson watched him for a moment, only turning away when she heard the kettle click. She was quiet for a minute or two as she made the tea, wrinkling her nose at the state of the fridge as she put the milk away, and put a steaming mug in front of Sherlock before sitting opposite her at the table.

"Have you seen John since you've been back?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"No." Sherlock said, looking back into the microscope. "I rather think he has enough to be getting on with at the moment. He does have a family of his own on the way now."

"He's still your friend though, dear, even if things didn't work out between you in the end." Mrs Hudson told him, taking a small sip of her own tea. "I'm sure he'd love to see you."

"He's busy." Replied Sherlock stiffly. "Far too busy with Mary and work to need me around as well." Mrs Hudson simply sighed sadly, watching him as he finally picked up his tea and looked at her, and the two of them fell into a companionable silence, only speaking occasionally to discuss items from the day's news as they drank their daily cup of tea together.

The rest of the morning passed without any more excitement, and it was past three o'clock before Sherlock finally left the house, checking in with his homeless network before stopping off at St Bart's to check if any interesting corpses had been brought in. He was out of luck though, as not only did the homeless network not have any new leads relating to the mysterious return and subsequent disappearance of Jim Moriarty, but he was also unable to locate Molly in the morgue. Perhaps she was out with that fiancé of hers – Dave, Paul or Tom or whatever his name was. Eventually, Sherlock was forced to admit that nothing interesting was likely to turn up, and he left the hospital, firing off a quick text to Lestrade as he hailed a cab.

From: Sherlock

To: Lestrade

Bored. Do you have any interesting cases? Don't bother telling me about anything less than a 7.

SH

The reply came quickly as he rode in the taxi back to Baker Street, and Sherlock eagerly opened it, hoping for good news. His short burst of hope soon faded, though, as he read Lestade's reply.

From: Lestrade

To: Sherlock

Sorry Sherlock. Got nothing for you. Just and open shut domestic and an ecstasy OD. Can't you just watch tele or something?

Sherlock sighed, ignoring Lestrade's ridiculous question and watching London go by out of the window as he rode on in silence. When exactly did life get so _tedious_? He knew, if he was honest, that this had begun when John had married Mary, but he had functioned just fine before John had come into his life. Why was everything so incredibly dull now that they had begun to go their separate ways? Why couldn't he simply go back to getting along just fine by himself?

Sherlock flung himself up the stairs as soon as he got back to 221B, dropping down onto the sofa and rolling over to press his face into the cushions. He felt as though his brain was rotting away inside his head. He needed something – _anything_ – to fill the unbroken silence of the flat. He stood up and wandered over to his violin, picking it up and plucking the strings aimlessly before putting it back down. He just didn't have the inspiration lately. Instead he switched on the TV, briefly watching with mild interest as yet another dysfunctional family on Jeremy Kyle argued over which of two brothers was the father of a nineteen year old chav's baby.

He watched the show for a few minutes before deducing that, in fact, neither brother was they father – couldn't they see the child's attached ear lobes, the idiots? Instead, leaving the TV on in the background, he wandered back over to the kitchen, grabbed a bowl of left over pasta Mrs Hudson had left in the fridge and put it in the microwave for an early dinner. He glanced back at the slide under the microscope while he waited for the food to heat up, noting down the level of cell damage in this particular sample just as the microwave beeped and getting up to retrieve his dinner. He ate in silence, flicking threw the pages of a book about the migration of insects in Britain while he ate, before dropping his dirty dishes into the sink for somebody – probably Mrs Hudson – to wash up tomorrow, and lying back down on the sofa to read his book.

Several hours later, just before eleven o'clock, Sherlock glanced down at his watch and decided this would be an acceptable time to go to bed. He changed quickly into his pyjamas and brushed his teeth while still reading his book, only putting it down to wash his face and walk back to the bedroom and climb into the bed.

Lying back down on his bed, Sherlock found himself, once again, considering the ceiling of his bedroom. He was sure he had spent more time staring at this ceiling since John had left to settle down than he ever had before, but he still continued to stare. The familiarity of it soothed him, giving him something to focus on as his thoughts strayed more and more towards the distressingly mundane path his life seemed to be heading down. Without John's blog bringing in clients, he was now taking far fewer cases than he had in a long time, instead relying on cases brought to him by Lestrade and the occasional client from his website.

Even the cases seemed less satisfying, though. There was still the challenge and the thrill of the chase, but without someone to share it with and, he wasn't ashamed to admit it, to show off to, even the work had lost some of its shine. It was clear to him he needed something to at least try to fill some of the void left by John's departure. He just didn't know yet what that could possibly be.


	2. The Watsons

**Chapter 2 – The Watsons**

John woke up slowly, stretching his arms over his head to release the cricks in his spine. Looking to his left, he saw Mary watching him, a small smile on her face.

"Morning." John mumbled, still waiting for his brain to wake up fully. "How long have you been watching me for?"

"Not long." Mary replied. "The little one has been moving more than ever this morning."

"Oh yeah?" Said the doctor with a grin. "Must be getting excited to come and explore." He rubbed his hand gently over Mary's rapidly expanding belly. "Still got a couple of months to go, young lady."

Mary laughed. "What have you got planned for today?"

"Nothing concrete." John told her as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I was thinking of going to see Sherlock."

"Really?" Mary said after a moment's hesitation. "I was going to suggest going to start shopping for the baby. There's lots to buy and I'm not going to want to do it once I start getting really big."

John looked at her, a brief frown crossing his face. He hadn't seen Sherlock since his four-minute exile three weeks previously and he was getting worried about the lack of contact from his friend. He had mentioned going to visit a few times over the past couple of weeks, but things always seemed to get in the way. He supposed that was how it was now they had a baby on the way. Mary's morning sickness had taken longer than usual to pass and she had still been complaining of nausea just a few days ago. Add to that her swelling ankles and feet and she just hadn't felt able to do much herself, so John had stayed at home to help rather than going to visit Sherlock.

"I suppose I should just be glad you're feeling up to it now" he commented, turning back to give her a quick peck on the forehead. "Tell you what, why don't we get up now and head into town. We can go into Westfield and grab breakfast there. I can always go and see Sherlock this evening".

"Good thinking, Batman." Mary said, beginning to get up herself. "In fact, there's a crepe place there I really fancy, now you mention it".

By the time John helped Mary off the DLR at Stratford, she was happily chatting away about all the things they needed to buy. John smiled as he watched her. She had been so uncomfortable the last week with her ankles starting to swell up, it was great to see her back to her old self, like the recent discomfort had never happened.

"Where do you want to go first?" John asked as Mary tucked into her second lemon and sugar crepe.

"Argos?" Mary suggested. "Get furniture sorted and arrange delivery?"

"Sounds good to me". John replied, glancing down at his phone. He knew he should be concentrating fully on the baby, but he couldn't help the niggle of guilt about Sherlock. Last time he had seen the consulting detective, Mycroft had been whisking him away to a private hospital to detox. That had been three weeks ago though, and still John hadn't heard a word from his best friend.

"What are you thinking?" Mary asked as she wiped her mouth on a paper napkin.

"I'm just worried about Sherlock". John explained. "He's never gone this long without texting and demanding I help him with one case or another".

"I told you, John". Mary replied, a slight bite to her voice. "Mycroft said Sherlock would get in touch with us when he was ready. Just leave him alone until he's ready".

"I promised Mycroft I'd look after him." John said. "I prom-"

"John, for God's sake!" Mary huffed. "You tried to look after him and you couldn't do it. He was too busy off taking God knows what. Just leave him and Mycroft to their schemes and lists and whatever it is they have to do to get Sherlock clean again and I'm sure they'll let you know when he's ready to see you again". Mary sighed, looking at John's worried face. "I'm sorry John, but today we just need to worry about the baby. Sherlock is fine. Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson; they would have got in touch if there was anything to worry about".

John hesitated. "You're right. Of course you're right. I'm sorry. He was just such a mess after everything that happened."

"I know." Mary said, taking John's hand gently. "But hounding him won't make him any better. We just need to let Mycroft look after him until he's ready to face everything again." She waited for a moment, letting John take in everything she had said. "Now, shall we make a move? This cot isn't going to buy itself."

Several hours later, John collapsed onto the sofa, absolutely exhausted after moving their many bags of shopping from the shops to the train to the bus and into the flat. He looked around while he caught his breath, noticing all the boxes still to unpack. They had only moved to their new home in Greenwich last week and there was still so much to do before it really became home. It had been hard, leaving the hustle and bustle of central London to move in here, but he had to agree with Mary. It would be much better raising a child here, with all the parks and open spaces and culture nearby, but without the noise, traffic and pollution of the City. And besides, it wouldn't be that hard to get the train into the City to go and visit Sherlock and Lestrade when they wanted to catch up. John sighed, heaving himself up to start unpacking some boxes and bags. Yes, his little family would do quite nicely here.


	3. What Real People Have

**Chapter 3 – What Real People Have**

Sherlock stared at Lestrade from across the sticky wooden table, his grey-blue eyes glowering sullenly at the Detective Inspector.

"What am I doing here, Lestrade?" He huffed, not even trying to keep the disdain from his voice.

"It's a pub!" Was Lestrade's reply. "You're drinking. Or you're supposed to be." He pushed Sherlock's untouched pint of lager closer towards him.

"But why?" Sherlock demanded. "Why have you suddenly decided that we should do this, after nine years of us never even considering the idea?"

Lestrade paused, a frown crossing his face as he considered the other man. "Look," he said after a moment. "I've been worried about you. We all have. You haven't seen anyone in weeks. You haven't even taken a case since you got yourself sorted out. Molly and I just thought it might be nice to have a bit of a catch up."

"Molly?" Sherlock repeated, looking a little alarmed. "Molly's not coming is she?"

"Of course she is." Said Lestrade. "Like I said, she's been worried about you. She mentioned something about not knowing what to do with all the stiffs now she hasn't got anyone taking all the bits. I pretended not to know what she meant."

Sherlock snorted, finally picking up his pint. "Just Molly?" He asked, giving Lestrade a pointed look. "No one else was worried?"

"Well…" Lestrade couldn't think how to finish the sentence. "I think everyone else is a bit busy. Lots going on, you know."

"Yes, I do." Sherlock didn't feel the need to go on any further. Both men knew who the proverbial elephant in the room was. They were saved any further awkwardness, however, by a cry across the pub.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock looked up and saw Molly making her way across the pub, another woman trailing closely behind her. He didn't take his eyes off this other woman as Molly practically pulled him to his feet and gave him a tight, lingering hug. He took in her long, wavy, dark hair; her chocolate eyes staring at him, almost as though they were looking for something; her smart, no doubt very expensive, blue dress. As he stared though, he saw no sign of the anger or recrimination he might have expected. Rather, she seemed to be simply waiting. Waiting for him to make the first move.

"Janine." Sherlock said, nodding his head awkwardly in greeting.

"Sherlock." Janine said. "You know, considering you're my fiancé, I'm a little hurt that you haven't been in touch in so long."

Behind them, Lestrade choked violently on his drink. Molly simply squeaked.

"Yes, that's true." Sherlock replied, his mouth twitching into a smile. "But you were knocked out before I could give you the ring, so does it really count?"

"Sorry!" Lestrade interrupted. "You two are engaged?"

"Of course not." Sherlock snapped as he and Janine took their seats at the table. "I proposed to break into her boss' office and then she sold all the sordid details of our sex life to every tabloid she could find. They were extremely imaginative stories, Janine. I would take my hat off to your creativity, but I do believe you took it to wear in your photoshoot for The Sun."

Janine laughed, grabbing Sherlock's drink and taking a sip from it. "I had to live out my fantasies somehow. God knows you never gave me a chance."

The evening passed quite pleasantly after the awkwardness of Sherlock and Janine's reunion. It was clear that the group had met already to discuss safe topics for conversation – John's name was conspicuous in its absence – but by the end of the evening Sherlock had solved two cold cases for Lestrade and arranged to collect three feet and a spleen from Molly at the morgue the next day.

"Right." Sherlock said at ten o'clock, standing up and pulling his coat back on. "This has been charming, I'm sure, but there's only so long I can last without saying something a bit not good." He froze for a second, briefly meeting Lestrade's eyes as the memory of John's words during that first drugs bust echoed between them. He cleared his throat, said quick goodbyes to the rest of the table, and was gone from the restaurant before anybody else could even recognise the prickly moment.

Waiting outside the restaurant, Sherlock pulled a cigarette from his pocket and put it into his mouth. As he lit it, he felt somebody walk up and stand next to him.

"I'm not going to have sex with you." Sherlock said, starting to walk towards the main road.

Janine laughed and put her hand into Sherlock's pocket, pulling out a cigarette and his lighter. "Is that right?" She chuckled around the cigarette as she lit it. "Well, maybe not, but you owe me, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock stopped, turning to face Janine. "I owe you?" He asked. "Owe you what?"

Janine smiled and took a deep drag from her cigarette. She stepped forward, leaning in to whisper in Sherlock's ear, her smoke rising in a fog around his head as she spoke: "A dance."

An hour and a half later found Sherlock and Janine dancing in the living room of 221B while the sound of Swan Lake played through the flat ("It's my favourite." Janine had commented when Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her choice of music). They had been dancing for half an hour, and their movements had now become more of a gentle sway in each other's arms rather than any real dance.

"What are we doing?" Sherlock asked, leaning back to look into Janine's face. "Why are you even here?"

"Because you need a distraction." Janine replied. "But you don't know how to distract yourself. You can't use drugs – I don't know the exact details but I know you already tried that and it didn't end well."

"I ended up overdosing on an aeroplane and hallucinating a whole other parallel version of my life."

"Exactly." Janine commented. "You can't bring yourself to even try taking cases to distract yourself, because you can't bear the thought of walking into a crime scene without John by your side."

"So why are you here?" Sherlock repeated.

"Because, believe it or not, I really did care." Janine said, smiling sadly up at him. "Because I want to help you. I want to distract you from how much you're hurting until he doesn't hurt you anymore. Because John has left with Mary to build himself a new life – a normal life – and I know that's all they ever wanted for you, too. I want to help distract you from how much you're hurting until that becomes a possibility for you again."

"And how do you propose to distract me?" Sherlock asked, his voice croaky around the sudden lump in his throat.

"Well, drugs aren't the only way to switch your mind off for a while."

Sherlock stared down at her. "Are you suggesting…"

"Do you think you could?" Janine asked him. "With a woman, I mean?"

"Of course I could." Sherlock snapped, a red flush spreading slightly across his cheeks. "But as I told even John, I consider myself married to my work."

"Yes, but let's be honest here, Sherlock. You and your work have been separated since John left. Unless you can sort yourself out, you and your work will be permanently divorced, and without your work, you and I both know what will happen. You will drive yourself out of your mind with thoughts and hurt until eventually you self-medicate your way into an early grave. So tell me, Sherlock." Janine grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and backed him slowly up against the wall, leaning in close to speak straight into his face. " _What are you willing to try to do something about it?"_

There was a moment, just for a few seconds but which seemed to stretch for hours, in which the whole world seemed to stand still. Sherlock stared down at Janine, his hands flat against the wall as she continued to press him against it. His thoughts flitted across his eyes as Janine waited with bated breath for him to act.

Sherlock lunged forward, spinning Janine around as he kissed her brutally. He pushed her hair back from her face and held it at the back of her head, his kisses rough and desperate as he searched for the absolution she had promised.

"Show me." Sherlock growled, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "Show me how you can make me forget."

"Oh I will, my darling." Janine promised, her Irish accent curling around the words as she pulled him towards the bedroom. "By the time I'm through with you, you won't even remember his name."


	4. The Signs

**Chapter 4 – The Signs**

Sherlock woke abruptly, his eyes flying open and falling immediately at the sleeping woman beside him. Rolling over, he winced at the tacky feeling of dried sweat on his skin. Without having to even think about it, he knew he needed a shower. He needed to wash the smell of perfume and sex and woman from his skin.

He didn't even remember how he got there, but he found himself in the shower. As he scrubbed roughly at his skin, he tried to make sense of what he was feeling.

The sex itself had not been bad; he had certainly enjoyed it in the physical sense. He had experienced the right combinations of pressure and friction to enable him to reach orgasm, but still, he now felt… He didn't even know. He felt _wrong_. He felt as though his skin was too tight on his body. He felt as though he was a key which, while it would fit in the lock, would not turn to open the door. It was as though somebody had gone through his mind palace, throwing things off shelves, taking a leaf blower to the carefully organised paperwork of his thoughts.

"Sherlock?" The detective jolted out of his own head as the bathroom door opened and Janine walked in. "Are you ok?"

"Fine." Sherlock said, leaning his head back to rinse shampoo out of his hair (when had he even shampooed his hair? Had he really been that unaware of his own actions?). "I'm fine."

"What did you think?" Janine asked as she stepped into the shower with him. "Did it help?"

"It..." Sherlock hesitated, trying to form his thoughts and feelings into something resembling an intelligible sentence. He didn't feel good, that was for certain, but then, the same would be true if he was coming down from using narcotics to clear his head. And the sex had certainly achieved that, if nothing else. He had woken feeling dirty, confused, in shock even, but he hadn't felt alone. Not once since he had woken up had he thought of John and the gaping chasm his absence had left in his life. "Yes." Sherlock said, turning to her and forcing himself to smile. "It helped."

"Good." Janine said, dropping to her knees under the spray from the shower. "Now why don't we see if I can help some more."

Sherlock held back a cringe – barely – but managed to smile down at her. At least, in the shower, he would be able to make himself feel clean again straight away. And if it helped him with his current predicament? Well, anything was better than that.

Sherlock dropped down into his chair, staring absently into the fireplace as Janine left for work. He heard her talking to somebody on her way out of the house, but didn't pay any attention. No doubt she had met Mrs Hudson on her way to the café for her morning tea. Had he not been feeling so out of sorts, he would have recognised the tap of a man's shoes on the stairs as certainly not belonging to Mrs Hudson. He would, at least, have noticed the sound of an umbrella tip as it knocked against each step.

"Good morning, brother mine." Mycroft said, stepping into the room and surveying his brother.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked without even glancing up from the hearth.

Mycroft didn't respond. He walked silently over and lowered himself into John's old chair, staring fixedly at Sherlock. A slight crustiness to his hair, suggesting he had not rinsed thoroughly after applying conditioner. Redness to his upper lip – he had been rubbing it as he sat thinking. Pallid complexion and a hint of red in his eyes – he had slept poorly. Just noticeable, the pattern from the edge of his pillow case still imprinted on his cheek – he had slept on one side of his bed, rather than in the centre as he usually did. A long dark hair clinging to the lapel of his jacket – there had been a woman here; not Mary or Molly, someone new. Two bruises to the left side of his throat, with considerable redness to the skin surrounding them – somebody had kissed him hard enough to leave marks, but he was aware of them, uncomfortable with them, so had been absentmindedly rubbing them since he had first noticed their presence.

"Oh Sherlock." Mycroft groaned, leaning forwards and putting his head in his hands. "What have you done?"

Sherlock snapped his head around to glare at his brother.

"What do you mean, _what have I done_?" Sherlock demanded furiously.

"Who is your friend, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

"That's none of your business!" Sherlock barked.

"On the contrary." Mycroft smiled humourlessly. "When my recently detoxed former addict of a little brother locks himself away for three weeks and then has sex with a _woman_ of all things…"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sherlock hissed.

"This is you we're discussing here, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "Of course it matters. They fact that you would lose your treasured virginity with some woman tells me more about your state of mind than any drug cocktail ever could."

"It was not treasured and she was not 'some woman'." Sherlock snarled back at him.

"Oh?" Mycroft queried. "Then who is she then?"

"A former girlfriend." Sherlock told him, standing up and straightening his collar in the mirror. "You once said we live in a world of goldfish. Congratulate me, dear brother. I got myself a goldfish."

"This won't fix anything, Sherlock." Mycroft whispered. "Whatever you think this will do to help, it won't."

"Get out!" Sherlock roared, spinning around furiously and hauling Mycroft to his feet. "Get the _hell_ out of my house!"

Mycroft sighed, gazing into his little brother's furious eyes. "I've said it before, Sherlock. I will _always_ be there for you. If you need me, if you ever need me, I will be there with no hesitation. When this… Just promise me, whenever you need me, whyever you need me, _please_ call me. I will come running."

Sherlock snorted disparagingly. "When have you ever run, Mycroft?"

Mycroft didn't respond. He sighed deeply, turned around and left.

 _One month later_

It was the sound of breaking glass that woke Sherlock from his troubled sleep, and his mind immediately went to the different possibilities: John (no, must not think that. Gone), burglar (possible. It wasn't the sound of a window breaking, but maybe they knocked something), Serbia (had they come? Was he dreaming about them because, on some level, he knew they would?) Sherlock shook his head. There was no use hypothesising without more data.

Sherlock walked quietly through the flat until he reached the kitchen. Janine was standing next to the fridge, one kilner jar in her hand and another smashed on the floor at her feet.

"What the hell are these?" She demanded furiously, shaking the jar in her hand towards the mess of glass and eyeballs around her feet.

"Good morning to you too." Sherlock replied dryly, reaching around her to get his mug from the cupboard. "Do put those back in the fridge. You will compromise the data if they're not kept at a consistent temperature."

"The data?" Janine repeated, staring at him incredulously. "I'm sorry, did I disturb the experiment with _bloody human tissue_ you were keeping next to the milk?"

"Now you mention it, yes." Sherlock replied as he grabbed the said milk from the fridge and went to put it on the table. "Just put it back where you found it. It's a delicate experiment and I don't want –"

There was a smash as Janine threw the jar across the room, narrowly missing Sherlock's left shoulder. They both froze, staring at each other in apparently equal shock.

"Oh my god." Janine gasped, rushing around the table towards Sherlock. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't aiming for you. I just wanted them gone and it was one thing after another and I got so pissed off! I'm sorry. I didn't sleep well and then the eyes and then you're just being so…" She hesitated for a moment, before saying urgently "Are you ok? Did it get you?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock whispered. "I'm sure… I was being… John hated the experiments too." He didn't mention the small cut on the heel of his bare left foot.

 _Two weeks later_

Sherlock hissed, slightly over-sensitive and far too sticky, as Janine rolled off him and lay down at his side with a giggle.

"Wow." Janine panted through her laughter. "We are getting rather good at this, if I do say so myself."

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed. His mind was, for once, blissfully quiet as he lay back with his eyes closed, listening to his heart pound and his breathing slowly returning to normal.

"Could you do me a favour, Sherl?" Sherlock's eyes snapped open as Janine's voice cut into the quiet in his head. "My throat's parched, but I'm not convinced my legs will work yet. Can you grab me a drink?"

"Just a second." Sherlock replied, reaching over as his phone beeped with a new text message. He glanced at the screen and quickly jumped out of bed. "Sorry, Lestrade's got me a case. Looks like at least a seven from the picture!"

Janine climbed out of bed too, following him to the bathroom. "You're going? Now?"

"Yes, of course now!" Sherlock snapped, flicking on the shower. "They won't keep the crime scene open all night."

"But Sherlock, we _just_ had sex." Janine said, a confused and irritated frown crossing her face. "I'm not some wham, bam, thank you maam! Christ, you haven't even given time for the spunk to find its way back out!"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at her words. "Is there any need to be so vulgar?" He asked with disgust. "I have a vivid imagination and that is not a mental image I will ever need."

 _Whack!_ Sherlock's hand flew to his face as Janine slapped him _hard_. Her hands covered her mouth, shocked at her own actions, and Sherlock's eyes snapped to the ring on her finger. It had turned the wrong way on her finger, no doubt during their recent sexual activity, and he could feel where the diamond had cut his cheek. Worrying his lip with his tongue, he tasted blood. The heel of her hand had hit his mouth. He had cut his lip on one of his teeth.

"Oh God!" Janine cried, rushing forward and pulling Sherlock's hand down to check his injury. She wet some tissue under the tap and started wiping gently at his cheek. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. You were just so _horrible_ then! I do this for you. We have sex because you need to switch off and I want to help you! You need to remember that sometimes and maybe show a bit more gratitude. I mean, all I wanted was a drink."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock mumbled. He stared over her shoulder, watching in the mirror as Janine moved to wipe the blood from his lip with careful hands. "I do appreciate it, really."

"I know you do, sweetie." Whispered Janine, kissing him gently under the rapidly forming bruise. "Why don't you go. Just this once. Next time, just remember to think about timing before you agree to take the case."

When Sherlock got to the crime scene, Lestrade hesitated on seeing his face. "What the hell happened to you?"

Sherlock touched his fingers to the new bruise on his cheekbone. He paused for a moment. "Oh, you know me. Cab drivers hate to be told their wives are having an affair."

As he walked into the crime scene, his tongue still playing with his cut lip and slightly aching tooth, he heard another woman's voice echoing through his mind: _"Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face I'd avoid you nose and teeth too."_

 _Two weeks later_

Sherlock rolled out of bed, pulling on his pyjama bottoms and padding quietly down the hall. He had been woken by movement somewhere in the flat and, walking into the living room, saw Janine emerging from the bathroom, looking wan.

"You look terrible." Sherlock commented, cringing as he saw her glare at his words. "Sorry. Not good, I know."

"Just make me a cuppa." Janine grumbled, throwing herself down into John's chair (Sherlock had to wonder when he would stop thinking of that as John's chair). "I feel like shit."

Sherlock carefully it back his instinctive comment of _'You look like it'_ and made his way to the kitchen. He flicked the kettle on and grabbed two mugs from the cupboard. Glancing down, he saw that he had, yet again, grabbed John's mug. He replaced it quickly and got another down. This 'having a girlfriend' lark was distracting him from the memories of what he had lost, but he certainly wasn't there yet. Still… at least he'd kept himself out of drug dens this time. That was an improvement on the first month after the wedding, so he'd consider himself on the mend.

Walking into the kitchen and placing Janine's mug on the table next to her, Sherlock heaved a sigh as he dropped down into his chair.

"You were sick." He commented, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes." Janine said. "What's your point, Sherl?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He merely fiddled absently with the phone in his pocket and mumbled "The signs of three."


	5. For His Sake

**Chapter 5 – For His Sake**

 _1_ _st_ _February_

John stared down at the tiny bundle in his arms. The baby was fast asleep, not moving except for the occasional crinkling of a tiny nose. John laughed as he looked down at the blue blanket wrapped around the precious bundle.

"Well this was certainly unexpected." He whispered, stroking his son's soft, blond hair. "I don't think Bella will quite suit you now."

"What're you talking about?" Mary mumbled from the bed, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

John smiled, walking over to her and giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead. "Just talking to this little man about what his name could be."

"Good point." Mary said, pushing herself up to look more closely at the baby. "We need some ideas now it turns out he's not a girl."

John laughed. "Well, there's always Sher-"

"No." Mary said, her face suddenly serious.

"Mary." John protested. "He has saved both of our lives on a number of occasions."

Mary glared at him. "And he's also a drug addict and a murderer. I'm not naming my son after him."

John sighed, looking down at the baby again. The baby was strong and sturdy, as could be expected for a child born three weeks late, and John felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to his absent friend. Without him, this child would probably never have even survived to be born. It didn't feel right, not to have some tribute to his best friend in there. They hadn't seen each other for months, but that didn't mean he didn't still love him more than any friend he had ever had. What's more, John wasn't stupid, no matter what Sherlock said. He knew why he hadn't seen Sherlock for months. He knew Mary, for whatever reason, didn't want anything to do with him. Maybe, after hearing about him murdering a man in cold blood, seeing him overdose on a frankly spectacular cocktail of illegal narcotics had been one step too far for her. Either way, until she had got her head around what had happened, Mary would never knowingly allow her child to be named after Sherlock Holmes.

John froze, an idea popping into his head. Sherlock's voice had drifted through his mind, saying _"Sherlock is actually a girl's name"_ and, moments before that…

"What about William." John said. "William Scott."

Mary stared, her eyebrows raised. "Where did that come from?" She asked, smiling incredulously.

"I don't know." John lied, smiling down at the baby. "It just came to me and it felt… right."

Mary reached over to take the baby from John. "William Scott Watson. I like it."

John smiled, kissing Mary and then William on the forehead. He squashed down the guilt he felt at deceiving his wife. Sherlock deserved this. He was so brave, so unwillingly good, he deserved to be recognised in the tiny, living breathing tribute in Mary's arms who wouldn't even have been born without Sherlock.

It killed John that he could no longer see Sherlock; no longer simply go and visit him because Mary said she didn't want a drug addict in her son's life. He hated that anybody had come between him and his best friend. Sometimes, on the more and more frequent days when he no longer recognised the woman he had fallen in love with, John imagined just saying 'enough is enough', packing his bags and going back to Baker Street. He knew though, looking down at William in Mary's arms, that he could never do that now, for his sake. And even if he could, it was too late. How could he just walk back into Sherlock's life after nearly four months of no contact? No, it was too late now, but he could remember Sherlock's friendship and bravery in the name his son would carry now. That would have to be enough, for Sherlock's sake and for William's sake.

Sherlock walked silently through the Diogenes Club and through into his brother's private room. He sat down in the chair opposite Mycroft without speaking, simply staring, lost for words, at him.

It had been two months since Sherlock's frankly alarming realisation over morning tea with Janine. Now, somehow, he had to put it into words. He hadn't said it out loud yet – he had even left Janine to figure it out for herself. This was something he had never imagined, never even considered as a possibility, if he was honest. He had never even thought about whether he wanted this, and now it was happening, whether he wanted it or not. Sherlock had never been more terrified, not when he pointed a gun at an explosive vest, not when he stood on the edge of a roof and jumped, not even when he had been captured and tortured in Serbia. That all paled in comparison to what he was facing now, and suddenly, Sherlock didn't know if he could say it. Saying it would make it real.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, his eyes skimming over his brother. Scratches on the back of his hand (fingernails – somebody had grabbed his hand hard enough to leave marks, possibly as he tried to walk away); a mostly healed bruise to the jaw (somebody had punched him, perhaps two weeks ago, possibly to be expected in his line of work).

"It's Janine." Sherlock said, rubbing anxiously at his face.

"What has she done?" Mycroft said, leaning forward to listen closely, concern etched across his face. "Are you ok?"

"Janine…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "She's pregnant."

Mycroft fell back into his seat, feeling the colour starting to drain from his face. "Oh, Sherlock." He said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I thought… after Victor… I thought, having a gay brother, we at least wouldn't have to worry about you accidentally knocking anybody up."

"Who says it was accidental?" Sherlock demanded defensively. "How do you know this wasn't planned."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, it hardly takes a Holmes to work this one out." He leant forward and whispered to Sherlock, "You're hardly jumping for joy, brother mine."

"Yes, well." Sherlock coughed, clearly uncomfortable. "It is a shock, certainly."

"What are you going to do?" Mycroft asked indelicately. "About the baby."

"Janine is Catholic." Sherlock replied. "That takes one option out of the equation."

Mycroft winced. "What about adoption. That's always an option if – "

"And what if the child is like us?" Sherlock snapped. "Should I leave my child to be raised by people who could never understand it? To be a freak?"

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was right. Perhaps, if their parents had been like he and Sherlock were, their childhood would have been very different.

"Are you ok?" He asked carefully.

"Yes, fine." Sherlock said with an attempt at dismissiveness. "I know I'll have to make some changes. I've already… Janine has been helping me become… less of a challenge. To live with. I'm sure, by the time the baby arrives…"

"When is it due?" Mycroft asked.

"August." Sherlock replied. "The 9th. Plenty of time."

Mycroft sighed, watching as Sherlock stood up and pulled his gloves back on.

"Sherlock." He said, reaching out a hand to stop his brother. "If you need me for anything – anything at all – please, promise me you will call. No matter what."

"God, Mycroft." Sherlock snarled. "We've been through this before. What would I need you for?"

"I would hope nothing at all." Mycroft said as the detective began to walk away. "And Sherlock!" Sherlock stopped and turned around. "Congratulations, little brother."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock swept from the room, a cold dread starting to build in his chest. Something was wrong and he could sense that it was only going to get worse. He just hoped that, maybe with a baby coming, there was a slim chance things would start to fall back into place and things would be ok. He doubted it, though. In fact, he didn't believe it for a second, but, as he heard his brother's footsteps echo across the wooden floor of the corridor outside, he hoped it would, for his sake.


	6. The Deal

**Chapter 6 – The Deal**

"Here we go, William. Welcome home."

John grinned widely as he carried William's car seat into the house. He walked into the living room, Mary following close behind, and placed the seat onto the coffee table while he unfastened the clips keeping the baby secure.

"He'll probably need a feed." Mary said, reaching past John to scoop her son up into her arms. "Before you put him down."

"Ok." John replied, dropping down into the armchair with an exhausted sigh. He watched with a smile as Mary grabbed a feeding towel from the basket next to the sofa and sat down to start feeding William. "I should probably text around." He added, still with a contended smile on his face.

"Hmm?" Mary hummed, glancing up from the baby's face.

"A text." John explained. "To let everybody know he's here. And, you know, not a girl."

"Oh, I've already done it." Mary said. "I did it when you went for coffee at the hospital. I sent a photo and everything. All very high tech."

"Oh. Right. That's brilliant." John glanced around the room, contemplating his next question. "Did you send it to Sherlock?"

"Of course." Mary replied quickly. "He didn't reply though. Probably too busy."

"Probably." John mumbled, frowning slightly. "I'll pop something on the blog though. Sherlock never stops responding to things on there."

"No!" Mary snapped, shushing William as he fussed at the sudden noise. "I don't want him on there."

"What?" John asked.

"I don't want William on the blog." Mary told him. "Or online at all. He's just a baby. Let's not publish his face all over the internet when he's too young to have a say in it. Besides, you never know who might see it."

"What do you mean?" John was thoroughly confused now. There was a bite to Mary's voice that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Well, for God's sake, John!" Mary bit out sharply. "That bloody blog is practically an advert for every psychopath and murderer to come knocking. You've attracted so many nutters on there, I don't want _my_ son anywhere near it."

John froze. He'd never thought of it like that. Was Mary right? Had he been putting his son in danger since before he was even conceived? "I guess you're right." He muttered. "I never realised."

"Yes, well." Mary glared angrily at him. "You were too busy enjoying being the little adventurer. You didn't stop to think what dangerous company you were keeping."

"I wasn't…"

"It's alright now, though." Mary interrupted John before he could begin to argue. "You've settled down now. Made sure you've built a good, safe life for me and William. That's what matters now."

"Yeah." John sighed. "I guess. That's all that matters now."

Sherlock eyed Janine curiously, examining her abdomen, her complexion, anything to give him some kind of clue. A worry had formed in his head, backed up by his observations, that he hoped was wrong. Taking a deep breath, he decided to take a chance and just ask her.

"Janine?"

"Yeah?" Janine glanced up at him from the magazine she was reading.

"Did you have a twelve week scan?"

Janine stared at him, her eyebrows raised. "Not yet, why?"

"Because you're fourteen weeks pregnant. That much is obvious, just by looking at your recent symptoms and the changes in your physique." Sherlock hesitated a moment before continuing. "Why haven't you had your scan yet?"

"I didn't have time." Janine replied. "They've sent a couple of appointments but I haven't been able to get to them."

"Well do you have an appointment coming up?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, actually." Janine replied, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a letter. She tossed it over to Sherlock for him to read. "Day after tomorrow. I could move some things around."

"Probably for the best." Sherlock muttered, quickly reading through the information.

"Yeah, thanks. I'm not stupid, Sherlock." Janine barked.

Sherlock dropped the letter with a jolt. "I didn't say…" He stopped, thinking carefully about his next words. "That's not…"

"It doesn't matter." Janine brushed it off. "So, do you want to come to the appointment then?"

"Can I?" Sherlock asked, looking hopeful. "You don't mind?"

"No, of course not." Janine said. "It's your baby, after all."

Sherlock winced as he walked into the hospital with Janine, running his tongue over the small cut in his swollen lip. He had made the mistake of telling her that morning that she wasn't going to fit into the skirt she was about to put on and she hadn't been happy, to say the least. Sherlock knew he wouldn't be saying anything like that again if he could help it, and if he did, he would make sure to duck when the shoe came flying at him. Apparently, high heels hurt.

"Stop fussing with it." Janine said as they turned into the maternity unit. "You'll just make it worse. Honestly, it's like I've already got a baby."

Sherlock said nothing. Janine had helped him learn something John had never managed to teach him: sometimes it was best to just keep quiet. He hovered behind his girlfriend as she checked in at the desk, picking up one of each leaflet from the display and taking them over to read as he sat down next to him.

"Great, Sherlock." Janine said, glancing at the leaflet on Down Syndrome he was currently reading. "That's really optimistic. Thanks for that."

"It's best to be prepared for anything that could happen." Sherlock replied without looking up from his reading. "If I didn't make sure I was prepared for all eventualities, I never would have survived jumping off a hospital, would I?"

"And we all know what a great loss that would have been." Janine muttered sardonically.

The detective froze, his eyes snapping up to stare at her in shock. He couldn't lie, even to himself. That had hurt. "There's no need to be quite so cruel." He mumbled, deliberately lowering his eyes back to his reading.

"That's ironic, coming from you." Janine laughed. "Cruel is your middle name."

"Actually it's – "

"Janine Donlevy?"

A lady in white scrubs was looking expectantly around the waiting room, a brown file clutched in her hands. Janine jumped to her feet, pulling Sherlock up with her, and followed the sonographer into the room.

Sherlock looked around the room while Janine introduced herself to the sonographer (Tracey, apparently) and discussed her symptoms. There was a large model of a baby inside a womb that he was positively itching to have a closer look at, but figured he might get a chance while Janine was cleaning up after the scan.

He watched, intrigued, as Janine lifted her top up to show her stomach and Tracey squirted some ultrasound gel onto her abdomen.

"Ooh, it's cold!" Janine gasped, smiling warmly at Sherlock. "I wasn't expecting that!"

"Sorry." Tracey said, her attention focusing now on the monitor. "It'll warm up in a sec, don't worry."

Janine and Sherlock watched as Tracey examined the monitor, moving the wand around on Janine's stomach to get a better view.

"Ok." Tracey said, fiddling with the dials on the side of the monitor. "Let's have a listen."

A rapid whooshing noise filled the room, and Sherlock felt his own heart thumping in his chest. He didn't need to be told what that was. It was the baby's heartbeat. _His_ baby's heartbeat. However unplanned this may have been, in that moment, it didn't matter. He couldn't explain, even to himself, why such a simple sound affected him so much. It was sentiment, he knew it was, as much as it hurt him to admit, but it was also overwhelming pride. That sound, the thrumming of those 163 beats per minute, was proof that he had, however accidentally, made something good and innocent and wonderful. All of the people in his life who had said he was wrong, inhuman, weird, autistic, a high-functioning sociopath, a freak, a robot; all of those people, doctors, psychologists, teachers, colleagues, other children, strangers on the street, they didn't matter. Because, in making this little person, he had proved them wrong. He was capable of doing something good. And, no matter what else was going on right now, whatever it was that had made him feel lately like a stranger, or even an imposter, in his own skin, it didn't matter anymore, not when compared to this amazing thing that was going to need him so much.

"Everything seems really healthy." Tracey said, jolting Sherlock out of his thoughts. "The baby's head is formed perfectly. The brain, heart and other organs all look good. If you look here…" She pointed at something in front of the baby's face on the screen. "It's sucking its thumb."

"Can you print it?" Sherlock asked, still staring at the screen.

"Of course." Tracey said. "How many would you like?"

"Just one for me, please." Janine answered, looking across at Sherlock. "Sherl?"

"Erm…" Sherlock thought quickly. "Six for me."

Sherlock ran his finger across the edge of the pictures in his pocket as he and Janine walked back through the hospital.

"Hey, do you want a coffee?" Janine asked, grabbing Sherlock's arm to stop him.

Sherlock stared. In four months together they had never gone for coffee. They tended to just stay at home, watch TV, drink coffee from chipped mugs, have sex, and maybe have a take away. He was confused, and a little concerned, about what this might mean.

"Ok." Sherlock replied, turning back to walk towards the café.

They walked in silence into the café and ordered their drinks. As he handed over his card to pay, Sherlock tried to work out what was going on. It was difficult enough to understand anybody's day to day behaviours and interactions. With Janine it was practically impossible.

"Well?" Sherlock asked as they sat down at a plastic table, each cradling their drink in their hands. "What do you want?"

"The scan got me thinking." Janine said. "About the baby."

Sherlock swallowed anxiously, words like 'mistake' and 'abortion' shooting through his mind and leaving a blaze of panic behind. "What about it?"

"Well." Janine hesitated, her apparent nervousness putting Sherlock even more on edge. "My mammy and da raised me a certain way. There's a way of doing things, and I was looking at my name on that screen, Janine Donlevy, and I just thought _that's not right_."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed.

"Well, a baby should be raised in a proper family." Janine explained. "That's what I was brought up to believe."

"A proper family?" Sherlock asked, his ears ringing as he started to join the dots of the conversation.

"Exactly." Janine said. "I just can't have a baby unless I'm, well, married."

"Married." Sherlock repeated, his heart pounding in his chest. "You want us to get married."

"Yes." Janine replied. "It's really important to me. I know you want to do right by this baby. You don't want it to grow up wondering why Daddy doesn't have the same name as it does."

Sherlock stared down into his coffee. She was right, of course. She knew how important the baby's name was too him. He'd been talking about little else since she had taken the test, but it had never even occurred to him that the child would not be a Holmes.

"I'll do you a deal." Janine cajoled, reaching over to squeeze Sherlock's hand. "You know how important this is to me, and I know how important the baby's name is to you, so how about this. You do this for me, and I'll let you name the baby. Anything you want."

"Anything?" Sherlock asked, an idea forming in his head.

"Just not John. Or Hamish." Janine said. "We started this whole mess because you were so desperate to get over him. It wouldn't be good for you to name a baby after him when you've worked so hard to get over him."

Sherlock thought hard for a moment, the word marriage echoing in his ears. It was something he had never wanted. He had never even wanted a girlfriend, never mind a wife. But to be able to name the baby himself, to give it a name that really meant something…

"Ok." Sherlock whispered, barely able to believe he was saying it. "Ok, I'll do it."


	7. Forsaking All Others

**Chapter 7 – Forsaking All Others**

Mycroft sipped at his tea, placing the cup down on his desk as Anthea walked into the room, a stack of post held under her arm.

"Good morning, Sir." Anthea greeted him, placing the mail on the desk in front of Mycroft. "Today's post for you and the latest report on the Trump situation." She handed a separate report over.

"Thank you, Anthea." Mycroft said, opening the report and flicking through it with a grimace of distaste. "Oh it's far too early for this." He closed the report and dropped it on his desk, picking up his mail instead. He flicked through the usual letters and memos from various international ambassadors, government agents and heads of state, freezing as he came across an envelope out of the ordinary.

It was a thick envelope, his name printed on ivory parchment in delicate typed calligraphy. Raising it to his nose, he detected a faint hint of aftershave, Bentley's Lalique. Mycroft snorted. His brother's taste seemed to be getting more extravagant as he grew older. His eyebrows raised, Mycroft slit open the envelope with a silver letter opener and pulled out the contents. Glancing over them, he felt his mouth fall open in horror.

 _You are invited to the wedding of_

 _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_

 _and_

 _Janine Isabelle Donlevy_

 _on_

 _Saturday 26_ _th_ _March_

 _at The Dorchester Hotel, 53 Park Lane, London._

"Oh, dear Lord." Mycroft groaned, staring down at the invitation. "Sherlock…"

The mobile phone in Mycroft's pocket started to ring and he reached into his waistcoat to take it out.

"What on Earth are you thinking?" Mycroft asked as way of greeting.

"So." Sherlock said, his voice sounding oddly hushed. "Will you be best man?"

"Best man?" Mycroft repeated. "Sherlock, why are you doing this?"

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped. "Will you do it? It's on your birthday, after all. It'd be a shame for you not to get a part."

"My birthday? Are you telling me you somehow managed to plan a wedding within two weeks, at the Dorchester of all places, just so that you could pretend it was my birthday present. How did you even do it, Sherlock? They're booked up two years in advance."

"The manager owes me a favour." Sherlock replied, his shrug almost audible, even down the phone. "Will you do it or not?"

"You know my thoughts on this, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "If you didn't, you would have told me before, rather than springing it on me in the form of an invitation and uncharacteristic show of brotherly sentiment."

"Mycroft." Sherlock was positively whispering now. "Will you just do it, please? I need…"

"What?" Mycroft jumped on the sudden display of vulnerability.

"I need somebody there who's on my side." Sherlock's voice had almost broken as he spoke and Mycroft felt his supposedly frozen heart breaking with it.

"Who else are you inviting?" Mycroft asked.

"Mrs Hudson." Sherlock replied. "And Molly Hooper. Janine likes her for some reason; God only knows why."

"Doctor Hooper has helped you a lot." Mycroft rebuked him. "She's a kind, good person. Too good, almost."

"That's why I'm surprised Janine likes her." Sherlock snorted and Mycroft had to laugh at his sudden return to usual form. He was just thinking that maybe there was hope for his brother after all when he heard Sherlock shush him quietly and the sound of a shower being switched on in the background.

"Are you hiding in the bathroom to phone me?" Mycroft asked, all previous humour evaporating.

"Never mind that." Sherlock hissed. "Will you be my best man or not?"

"Of course I will, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "But surely John or Gregory…"

"They're not coming." Sherlock sounded suddenly sad.

"Did you ask them?" Mycroft asked gently. "Did they even get an invitation?"

"I couldn't." Sherlock muttered. "And you can't either."

"I won't." Mycroft assured him. "I know when I have the potential to do more harm than good. Do you need anything?"

"No." The detective said. "I'll be fine."

The line went dead and Mycroft gazed morosely down at the phone in his hand. He wasn't sure whether he was making the right move, agreeing to be Sherlock's best man. One thing he was sure of, though, was that he couldn't let his little brother do this alone.

Mycroft adjusted the rose pinned to Sherlock's lapel, ignoring the younger man when he tried to shrug off his hands. There was a strange atmosphere in the room as the guests and wedding party waited for Janine. There was only a small number of guests, especially on one half of the room, and there was little chatter or laughter. Instead, guests were sitting quietly, some whispering to the person next to them, most simply watching Sherlock and Mycroft's preparations. The occasional cough or cleared throat was quickly stifled, echoing unwelcomely through the overlarge ballroom.

"Are you sure about this?" Mycroft asked, trying unsuccessfully to make eye contact with his younger brother. "There's still time, you know."

"I'm sure." Sherlock mumbled, staring out at the guests waiting for the wedding to begin. "I know what I'm doing."

"I'm glad you do." Mycroft whispered, turning to face the registrar as the sound of Pachelbel's Canon announced the bride's arrival. "Because I have no idea."

The wedding went, to Mycroft's disappointment, without a hitch. He had watched, dread settled firmly in his stomach as he watched his brother bind himself to Janine. He almost laughed as Sherlock vowed to honour and respect her, forsaking all others. He had already done that, Mycroft thought, and rather against his will.

Now though, the vows had been said, the rings had been exchanged, and it was time for the dreaded best man's speech. As he stood beside his brother, staring out at the guests, Mycroft found his speech gone from his mind. What was one meant to say when you were celebrating an event they were sure was the greatest mistake of their brother's life? How could he get any sort of message across without leaving Sherlock in a worse situation than he was already in.

His eyes fell upon the table of Sherlock's guests. They were an embarrassingly meagre offering. Mummy, Daddy, Angelo, Molly, Mrs Hudson and, bizarrely, Philip Anderson. Mycroft watched them, saw the way Angelo was fiddling absently with his own champagne glass, the way Molly was clutching Mrs Hudson's hand in an apparently comforting gesture, and, suddenly, he knew what to say.

"I gave a lot of thought about what to say today." Mycroft began. He made brief eye contact with Mrs Hudson and gave her a brief, reassuring smile. "Growing up with Sherlock was a unique experience. He was demanding, explosive, challenging in every way you can imagine. But he was also funny, intelligent, loyal, generous, affectionate, passionate, loving; qualities I am sure he will bring to his marriage and his new family.

"For so long, Sherlock was an overly independent, even isolated man, who refused to live with other people. Some may say lucky for them, but I would have to disagree. Over the last few years, Sherlock has found a treasure trove of wonderful people who have shown him that he can live with others, and together they can thrive. He has grown into a great friend, a good man who will go above and beyond to protect those he loves. He would slay the deadliest dragons, jump from the tallest towers – or even St Bartholomew's Hospital – for the sake of other people. And, in that same way, I know there are so many people who would go to any lengths for him. There are people in this room, beyond this room, people all over the world, who would do anything at all to help Sherlock Holmes.

"And so I come now to Janine. What is there to say about the woman who has become Sherlock's wife? Janine is a beautiful, charming, funny, intelligent. She came into Sherlock's life and brought with her an intellect and wit to challenge even him. She is a truly remarkable lady and I am looking forward to welcoming her into our family." Mycroft hesitated, hoping the true meaning behind his words, the warning, would reach Janine, or at least Sherlock.

"And now," Mycroft said, lifting his champagne glass. "I ask you to stand and raise your glasses to Sherlock and Janine. May you have a safe and happy life together."

Sherlock met his brother's eyes as he sipped from his own glass and the wedding guests echoed Mycroft's hopeless toast.


	8. With My Body

**Warning: This chapter contains graphic violence, ignoring of safewords and non-con.**

 **Chapter 8 – With My Body**

Janine smiled as she grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him playfully up the seventeen steps to 221B. "Stop complaining!" She laughed as they walked. "Trust me, it's worth your while."

"But we have a room at the hotel." Sherlock reminded her. "Why have we come back here when you insisted we got the hotel room in the first place."

"Because we're going to want some privacy." Janine explained as she pulled him through the flat and straight to the bedroom. "I've got a little treat for you."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked as she opened the door.

Janine turned to face Sherlock and leaned in close, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Why don't you see for yourself?" She whispered, pulling him into the room and stepping aside.

Sherlock stared at the bed in front of him, taking in the scattered red and white rose petals littering the cover. His mind flooded with panic as he took in the scene, ideas and horrendous possibilities chasing each other through his swirling mind.

"I found it in your wardrobe." Janine explained, sitting on the bed and fingering the riding crop on the pillow. "I figured, well, there's only one reason a guy like you would have one of these. I thought we could have some fun."

"I…" Sherlock couldn't think of anything to say. How could he explain to her what the riding crop was actually for? Would she believe that he actually used it to whip corpses, not sexual partners? "It's…"

"Oh, look at you, you poor lamb!" Janine stood up and walked up to Sherlock, kissing him softly on the lips. "There's no need to look so terrified. I won't bite. Not unless you ask me to. Now, why don't we get you out of those clothes."

Janine pushed Sherlock's tuxedo jacket off his shoulders and undid his purple silk waistcoat, throwing it on the floor on top of the pile. Then, with soft, caressing fingers, she slowly unbuttoned his crisp, white shirt before sliding the fabric sensually down his arms. Grabbing his waistband, she slowly pulled him towards the bed, unbuttoning his trousers as she walked backwards.

"Come on then." She said, nudging the now open trousers slightly down. "Get them off and hop on the bed."

Moving mechanically, Sherlock did as he was told. He toed his shoes off, nudging them neatly against the bedside table, and pulled down his trousers and underwear. That done, he sat cautiously down on the bed, watching as Janine stood unzipped her ivory silk wedding gown and let the dress drop to the floor. As she turned back to face him, his eyes fell on the barely visible swell of the baby growing inside her. At four and half months, she wasn't visibly pregnant to anybody else, but here, wearing nothing but her underwear and under the watchful gaze of the man who knew her body far more than he could ever want to, it was becoming noticeable. As he stared, Sherlock struggled to put together the idea of the woman who was carrying his child, nourishing and protecting it within her womb, with the woman who was intending to do who knew what to him with his own riding crop.

"What's your safeword?"

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock pulled his eyes up to Janine's face, away from the welcome sight of his growing child.

"Your safeword." Janine repeated, stroking a hand through his hair. "In case you want me to stop."

"Oh." Sherlock said stupidly, casting desperately through his mind. His first thought was 'John'. That was certainly a word that made him feel safe, but he didn't think Janine would approve somehow. "Jumper." He said instead. "It's 'jumper'."

"Ok." Janine smiled. "Jumper it is. I know you won't need it though. I've seen the marks on your back. Something tells me this isn't your first time. Now, lie down on your front and you just enjoy your wedding present."

Sherlock lay down on his stomach, resting his chin on his forearms as he stared at the headboard. Of course, when she found the riding crop and linked it to the scars on his back, it was only natural for Janine to assume the scars were made during some sadomasochistic game. He couldn't bring himself to correct her, though. He had never even told John what had happened to him in Serbia. The idea of telling Janine about it, even though she was now his wife, felt wrong. Telling her that last secret would leave him with absolutely nothing of his own.

The first crack of the riding crop across his back shocked Sherlock out of his thoughts and drew a grunt of pain and surprise from his mouth. It wasn't too bad, though, so Sherlock gritted his teeth and pressed his lips tight against the skin of his arm, preparing himself for more. The second lash was harder and Sherlock bit his teeth into his skin, his whole body tensing against the pain. Again, the crop came down, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, flashes of images bursting behind his eyes. Every time the crop came down, harder each time, his mind conjured up images and smells. He was chained up – no, he was lying in his bed. He was locked in a dark, damp, putrid smelling cell – no, he was safe, at home in Baker Street. A tall, sweaty man in dark, sweaty clothes was whipping him ruthlessly – no, his naked, pregnant wife was whipping him ruthlessly.

"Jumper!" Sherlock cried, his eyes snapping open. _Crack!_ The riding crop hit him again. "Jumper! Jumper! Janine, enough! Jumper!"

"Don't be silly." Janine said, rubbing a hand soothingly over his back before bringing the riding crop down on him again. "You're fine."

"Janine, please!" Sherlock begged, horror and disgust wiping all traces of pride from his brain. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't. She had hurt him before, certainly, made him bleed, even, but that had only ever been when he had done something to cause it. When he had been rude or selfish or arrogant or dismissive of her. That she would do this, unprovoked, on their wedding night, when he was asking her, pleading with her to stop, was unimaginable. "Jumper, Janine! Will you stop, please! Jumper! Jumper! Jumper!"

Again and again the blows rained down on him, his shouts seeming to spur her on rather than asking her to stop. As he felt the skin split under a particularly harsh lash, Sherlock stopped shouting. He bit his teeth hard into his forearm, tasting blood as he broke the skin, and cherished the distraction. Anything was better than the pain being inflicted on him by his wife. Sherlock cried out, sobbing despite his best efforts not to. He was desperate to be stronger than this, to hide his weakness like he had in Serbia, but here, in his home, where he should have been safe from it, it was harder to build those walls back up. Tears spilled over as he felt another blow break the skin. He knew he was bleeding, could feel it trickling down his side and over his ribs as Janine continued to hit him, apparently in a frenzy now as the momentum of her actions encouraged her to carry on.

Eventually, after what felt like hours but which, in reality, Sherlock knew was only ten minutes, the cracks of the riding crop slowed and finally stopped. Groaning, his whole body twitching and shaking with pain and adrenaline, Sherlock pressed his face into the pillow, trying to control his breathing. After a moment, though, Sherlock cried out as Janine rolled him over and pain like fire swept across his back.

"There you go." Janine said, kissing him passionately. "I told you you'd like it?"

"Like it?" Sherlock repeated, pulling back sharply to glare at her. "What…?" He trailed off, following her gaze down his body. His eyes widened in horror, unable to believe what he was seeing. Although he knew, logically, that it was the rush of adrenaline, endorphins released to try to combat the pain, chemicals swirling around his body during the nightmare of what had just happened, it still sickened him to see that it had made him hard.

"Now then." Janine said, straddling his hips and kissing him again. "Why don't we do something about that."

"No." Sherlock said, trying weakly to push her away. "I don't want…"

"Sherlock!" Janine rebuked him, a playful smile on her face. "It's our wedding night. Don't tell me I need to persuade you even more?"

The detective shook his head, closing his eyes as she slowly slid down onto him with a whispered "That's my boy."

Turning his face away from her, Sherlock muttered "Jumpers". He knew, though, that it would make no difference.


	9. Trapped

**Chapter 9 – Trapped**

John rolled over, his eyes cracking open at as William started to cry in his cot. Beside him, Mary pulled her pillow over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. John sighed, climbing out of bed for must have been the fourth or fifth time that night.

"It's alright, William." John soothed, plucking the baby from his cot and holding him close to his chest. "Daddy's here. What's the matter, hmm?" Behind him, Mary huffed irritably and John sighed, tiptoeing out of the bedroom and taking William downstairs to the kitchen.

John yawned widely as he heated a bottle of milk in a pan of water, rocking William on his shoulder as he did. He was due to start back at work today, having taken extended leave since William's birth, and he had to admit to himself he was worried. Mary had not taken to motherhood at all. While, at the start of their relationship, she had been warm and loving, this had not come through in her relationship with her eight-week old son. Instead, Mary preferred to take a back seat, letting John take care of the baby while she kept them both at arm's length.

"Here you go, little man." John said, walking into the living room, lowering himself gently onto the sofa and easing the teat of the bottle into the baby's mouth. "Breakfast is served."

"Is he ok?" Mary asked, stepping into the room.

"Yeah." John replied with a tense smile. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was half past six. "What're you doing up?"

"Getting ready for work." Mary told him, as though it should have been obvious. "I have to be in at half eight."

"Work? Wait, what?" John stared at her, baffled. "I'm going back today."

"You were." Mary explained. "I changed the maternity and paternity leave forms when I dropped them in at the surgery. You're doing the full year's paternity leave while I go back to work."

John was speechless, fury buzzing through him. "No." He croaked. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off his rage. "Sorry… em… you… em… you can't just… you can't just make these decisions by yourself, Mary!"

"Quiet, John." Mary snapped. "You'll upset the baby. And I thought it was for the best."

"For the best?" John hissed at her. "How can this be for the best? We agreed I would go back to work so that we still had the higher income coming in when you start going down to reduced pay."

"Well I decided there were more important things than just bloody money!" Mary shouted, pacing angrily around the living room. "For God's sake John, of course I wouldn't want you to go back to work!"

"Why the hell not?" John demanded, putting the now empty bottle on the floor and leaning William forward to burp him.

"Because I can't trust you!" Mary exploded, spinning around to glare furiously at John.

"What do you mean you can't trust me?" John asked, stunned by Mary's accusing look. "When have _I_ ever lied to _you_?"

"Oh, you haven't yet." Mary sneered. "I know what will happen, though. You'll go back to work and eventually Sherlock Holmes will turn up with some case or mystery to tempt you back to working with him. I'm not going to let that happen. God knows you can't stay away from the man."

"You can't just keep me locked up here because you've decided you don't like Sherlock!" John said. "And you don't get to decide who I do or don't speak to!"

"Oh, don't I?" Mary scoffed, and smirk playing across her mouth. "You might want to rethink that, John. Remember who I am. I've disappeared off the face of the earth once before and I can do it again. If you don't do this for me, I swear to God you will never see me or William ever again. You'll come home one day and we will be gone. It will be like we never existed."

John froze, horror-struck as he saw his wife clearly for the first time. Suddenly, it all made sense and he wished more than anything that it didn't. This wasn't just a hint of post-natal depression that he could look into and get Mary help for. This was something she had thought about and planned. Now he knew what to look for he could see how she had been building to this since long before their son was born. And the worst part was that there was nothing he could do. He could leave and never see William again, or he could stay, alone with nothing but a manipulative, controlling wife, but at least he would still have his son and know that he was safe. In short, John knew, with absolute certainty, that he was trapped.

Sherlock hissed in pain as he stretched back to pull his jacket back on. The wounds to his back had barely started to heal and he knew they would be bleeding again in no time at all. There was nothing else to do though. He and Janine had to be back at the hotel in time for breakfast, unless he wanted awkward questions asked.

"Ready to go, Sherl?" Janine asked as she pulled her own coat on. Sherlock grunted to say yes but didn't look at his wife. He felt like he would never be able to look at her again. "Do try to look happy, Sherlock." Janine chastised him. "You're meant to be a newlywed, after all."

Sherlock cringed as Janine placed her hand into his and walked out of the door with him. He forced his face into a relaxed, content expression though, as he raised his arm painfully to hail a taxi. He knew what it would cost him if anybody suspected what was going on.

"Are you ok?" Mycroft whispered to Sherlock as he watched his brother reach for his tea and wince in pain. "You seem quite uncomfortable."

"I'm fine, Mycroft." Sherlock hissed, shooting his brother a warning look. Nothing for you to concern yourself with."

Mycroft nodded, his eyes flicking suspiciously between his brother and sister-in-law. "If you say so, brother mine."

"Sherlock just overexerted himself a little, isn't that right, darling." Janine said, placing her hand casually between her husband's shoulders and smiling sweetly at him. Sherlock and Mycroft both cringed slightly, the younger man flushing as Janine's guests laughed at her innuendo.

Sherlock's guests, however, did not laugh. An awkward tension had spread through the small group as they noticed the Holmes brothers' reaction to Janine's words. It was clear to all of them that Sherlock was tense and uncomfortable, though none of them could see why.

"Excuse me." Sherlock muttered, placing his napkin on the table and standing up. "Bathroom."

He walked out of the hotel restaurant as quickly as he could without arousing suspicion, his breaths coming fast and harsh, a feeling of irrational claustrophobia starting to overwhelm him. He threw himself into the bathroom in the hotel lobby, leaning heavily on the sink as he fought to control his breathing. All Sherlock could think of, though, was the confused eyes of Mrs Hudson and Molly, the sad expression on Mycroft's face, and the feel of Janine's hand on his throbbing back when all he wanted was to shrug her off and never let her touch him again.

"Oh, Sherlock." The detective heard the main door lock as Mycroft stepped into the room. He let out a dry sob, turning his face away so that his big brother could not see him. "Please, Sherlock, tell me how I can help."

"You can't." Sherlock gasped, his chest heaving. "I need to figure this out for myself."

Mycroft sighed, reaching out to rub comfort into his brother's shaking back. Sherlock cried out in pain, though, at his touch, jumping out of reach, his face marred unmistakeably with pain.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, his eyes full of concern. "What happened? What has she done?"

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock shrugged, cringing again at the movement. "Just…"

"Show me." Mycroft commanded. His eyes were cold with fury, though it was obvious he was fighting to control himself.

Sherlock hesitated but, recognising that his brother would not compromise on this, shrugged out of his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt. Mycroft swore under his breath as his little brother turned around and showed him his injuries and Sherlock snorted, looking back over his shoulder at Mycroft's uncharacteristic curse. "That bad?"

"Sherlock, this has to stop." Mycroft said, turning his brother around and holding his head in his hands so that he could stare imploringly into his eyes. "Please let me help you with this."

"You can't, Mycroft!" Sherlock barked. "Do I need to spell out the position I'm in? She is the mother of my child. She is my wife. If you wade in now, she will take the child and I will never even meet them. I will be leaving my own son or daughter in the hands of a violent and dangerous woman with nobody else to protect them from her psychopathic manipulations and rages. If you try to stop her taking the child, she will go to the press, telling them all about how the great hat detective conned her into marriage, got her pregnant and then abducted her child. I will lose everything and she will get the child anyway. There is nothing you can do here, Mycroft! You need to leave me to work this out for myself!"

Mycroft was silent, trying to think of an argument to disprove his brother's logic. He couldn't, though. Everything Sherlock said was right.

"Promise me, Sherlock." Mycroft whispered, taking two cigarettes from his pocket and holding one out for the detective. "Promise me you will tell me, if you need me or if you think of a way out of this mess. Promise me you will call."

Sherlock took the cigarette and the lighter Mycroft passed him next. "I promise."


	10. Johanna

**Chapter 10 – Johanna**

 _19th July_

Sherlock plucked aimlessly at the strings of his violin, watching the world walk past, unaware of the former detective watching them from above. Heaving a sigh, Sherlock placed his violin back in its case and nibbled at his thumb nail. He hadn't left the flat in nearly three months, choosing to stay home rather than going out into the world and facing the clueless, happy, hateful ordinary people of London. He loathed and envied them at the same time, really. The majority of them had ordinary jobs and ordinary, happy relationships. They went home from work, kissed their husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, glad to be home, safe and loved. He had a split lip, a black eye, a wife who barely spoke to him, a job he had to give up and a daughter due in three weeks who would be welcomed into a home filled with anger, hate and violence. Whenever Sherlock went out, he wasn't happy to come home. He dreaded it.

And so Sherlock removed that particular ordeal from his life. Why live with the dread of coming home when he could just stay there. At least then the worst was out of the way. He didn't have to actively force himself to step through the door and put on the façade of the dutiful husband. It was easier if he just never took the mask off.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned around and saw Janine standing in her pyjamas, leaning heavily on the doorframe, her hand holding her swollen belly.

"It's early." Sherlock commented, seeing the discomfort in her eyes and the damp spread of fluid on her pyjama bottoms.

"We need to go to the hospital." Janine said, pulling her coat from the back of John's chair and pulling it on.

"Contractions?" Sherlock asked, taking his own coat from the hook.

"Eight minutes apart." Janine told him. "I don't think this will be a long labour."

"Apparently not." Sherlock pulled his scarf on, putting a reluctant arm around his wife to help her out of the door.

Sherlock stood in the corner of the private hospital room, watching awkwardly as Janine hungrily inhaled Entonox. They had been at the hospital two hours, and they weren't expecting it to be long before Baby Girl Holmes made an appearance. Already, Janine's contractions were three minutes apart. As the midwife came in to examine his wife again, Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and took the distraction as an opportunity to write a text.

From: Sherlock

To: Mycroft

At the hospital. JH in labour. Baby due within two hours judging by current condition.

SH

"Ok." Sherlock heard the midwife – Clara – say to Janine. "You're at nine centimetres at the moment. Not long now and we'll get you down to the delivery room."

Janine nodded and smiled weakly at Clara, her face sweaty, her eyes closed as she breathed deeply through the pain. Sherlock watched for a second and followed the midwife out of the room.

"Is everything ok?" He called, catching up to the midwife. "The baby wasn't meant to be born for another three weeks."

Clara gazed intently into Sherlock's face, taking in his injuries and fierce protectiveness of the baby who hadn't even been born yet. She was a tall, slim woman with red hair tied back in a ponytail. Her green, almond shaped eyes were soft and kind and her pale skin was dusted with light freckles.

"It's fine. It's all fine." Sherlock gasped, searching the midwife's face for any sign that she knew what she had said. There was no sign. "What about you?" Sherlock's frowned in confusion at the question. "Are you ok?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock asked, eying her suspiciously.

"I've been watching you." Clara said bluntly. "Keeping your distance, watching from the sidelines. What happened to your face?"

"I have a dangerous job." Sherlock lied, shifting uncomfortably. "I deal with dangerous people."

"Oh, I know all about your dangerous job, Sherlock Holmes." Clara replied. "I used to follow that blog about you. After you died, I even had an 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' t-shirt. Haven't seen you in the papers for months, though. Nothing on the blog either."

"Just because there's nothing in the paper doesn't mean nothing happens." Sherlock retorted, glancing up and down the

corridor. "I'm fine."

Clara raised her eyebrows and smiled humourlessly before walking away. Sherlock watched her leave, his heart pounding. When had he become so obvious that any idiot could read him?

Sherlock stood next to Clara, watching as Janine pushed furiously. He was wearing borrowed green scrubs, his shirt sleeves rolled up over his forearms, and he was moving with a nervous, excited energy he hadn't felt in more than a year.

"Sherlock!" Janine snapped furiously in the brief reprieve between contractions. "Will you stay up this end, for God's sake!"

"What?" Sherlock cried, staring at her. "Two days ago you were making me lick it and now I'm not even allowed to see it?" Beside him, Clara raised her eyebrows and silently mouthed _'making you?'_. Sherlock scowled at her and mouthed _'shut up!'._

"Exactly!" Janine barked, gritting her teeth as the pain swept through her again and Clara called to her to push again. "Just get here!"

Sherlock huffed irritably, walking back to stand at Janine's shoulder. He winced as she dug her finger nails into his exposed forearm, pressing hard against the partially faded bruises already there. All he wanted was to see his baby crowning, but instead he gritted his teeth and waited, watching as Janine screamed and pushed. Glancing down at his feet, he watched as Clara stepped slightly to the left, twitching her head oddly.

 _'_ _What?'_ Sherlock mouthed, watching her in confusion as she repeated the action. Clara raised her eyebrows again, her eyes impossibly wide as she nodded her head back again. Baffled, Sherlock looked over her shoulder and his face lit up as he noticed what she had been trying to point out. Three metres behind the midwife, on the wall above the sink, was a large mirror. Sherlock could see his daughter being born after all. He grinned widely and winked at Clara, mouthing _'Thank you'_ and meaning it with everything he had.

Sherlock held his daughter in his arms, staring down into her face, drinking in her soft black hair and pale blue eyes staring back up at him. She was just three hours old and already he felt like this tiny little person had turned his world upside down. As he watched her close her eyes and drift off to sleep he felt the responsibility he had suddenly acquired and felt absolutely unprepared. He had never been able to even take care of himself. How was he meant to take care of her, never mind protect her from her mother?

Standing carefully, Sherlock walked slowly out of the ward, taking his daughter out into the waiting room.

"Janine is being discharged." Sherlock told Mycroft, glancing up at him briefly. "Apparently she can recover at home."

Mycroft watched his brother and niece, a rare genuine smile on his face. He reached over, pulling Sherlock's phone from his jacket pocket and opened up the camera. He took a photo of his little brother gazing down at his daughter and handed the phone over for Sherlock to look. Sherlock looked down at the photo, smiling at the first photo.

"Does she have a name?" Mycroft asked as he took a second photo with his own phone.

Sherlock hesitated before telling his brother and Mycroft's mouth fell open.

"Sentiment, Sherlock?" Mycroft said. "How touching."

"Yes, well." Sherlock shrugged, looking back down at the baby. "Don't get used to it."

Lestrade reached into his pocket as his text alert sounded, stopping dead in the middle of the crime scene as he saw he had a new picture message from Sherlock. He hadn't heard from the consulting detective since the end of November and he was a bit worried about why he was breaking his radio silence now. He opened the cautiously, his jaw dropping as he took in the photo and the message accompanying it.

From: Sherlock

To: Lestrade

Johanna Martha Mycah Holmes

6 pounds 3 ounces

Born 7:31pm 19th July 2016

Lestrade read the text several times, looking from the picture to the message and back again to make sure he hadn't misunderstood. Once he was sure, he looked up from the phone, staring in shock around the room with a cry of "I don't bloody believe it!"


	11. Enough

**Chapter 11 – Enough**

John took a sip of his tea, holding a six month old William on his lap and watching the families riding pedal boats in the lake. It was a glorious, sunny day and, while Mary was at work, John had taken the opportunity to go to the park with his son. All around him he could see tourists enjoying the mid-August good weather or parents enjoying the summer holidays with their children.

"One day," John whispered to his son as he gave him a kiss on the top of his head. "One day, I'll bring you here to ride on the boats. Would you like that?" William babbled happily in response as John drained the last of his tea before continuing. "We'll ride the boats and eat ice cream in the park." He stood up and tucked William up into his pram. "Then, I'll even take you to the Royal Observatory. We can watch the stars and learn all about the planets. We can't have you doing a Sherlock, can we? We can't have you not knowing that the Earth goes around the sun."

John carried on chattering away to William as they started to walk towards the bus stop. He pointed out things he saw as they passed, showing him different things people were doing and different places around the famous park.

As they got on the bus, John glanced nervously at his watch. It was ten minutes to five now and they were cutting it fine if they were going to get home before Mary. Tutting, John looked down at William with a wry smile and muttered "Shouldn't have had that second cup of tea, little man."

John pushed the pram through the door, tucking it in at the bottom of the stairs before lifting William out.

"Where have you been?" Mary asked as John walked into the living room with the baby.

"We went to the park." John told her, putting William down on his play mat and turning to face his wife.

"Don't give me that!" Mary snapped, standing up and glaring at John. "I know exactly where you've been."

"Where's that?" John asked wearily.

"You've been to see Sherlock." Mary accused. "And you took William with you."

"Don't be ridiculous." John said, going to leave the room.

"I'm not being ridiculous!" Mary shouted, grabbing John and pulling him back to stop him leaving. "I know where you've been. You're starting back on those stupid cases again!"

"You're paranoid." John shot at her. "I haven't been anywhere near – "

Mary slapped John across the face, cutting off the end of his denial. There was a deafening silence in the room as John stared at his unrecognisable wife. Behind them, William started screaming loudly, staring up at his parents.

John reached down and picked William up. Without speaking, he walked out of the living room and into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He felt a strange sense of calm as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened up a new text message. That was enough, now. He'd suspected this was coming and prepared for it, but he was still shocked that it had actually happened.

From: John

To: Lestrade

I need you to come and get me asap. Log into my petcam account and download the videos. Username doctorjhw, password wssh221b. Bring back up. May need to be armed. Spare key on top of porch light.

John

John waited a minute after hearing the front door open before he stepped carefully out of the bathroom, William clutched protectively in his arms. Lestrade was standing in the doorway, a gun held in his hand and a bulletproof vest strapped over his shirt. Behind him, Donovan was eying John cautiously.

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked as he stepped further into the hall.

"In here." John said, walking into the living room. Mary was sitting on the sofa, her eyes red, watching him anxiously.

"John." Mary whispered. "John, I'm so…"

"Don't bother." John said, looking impassively down at her. "You hit me. In front of William. This marriage is over."

"John, please!" Mary begged, standing up and trying to approach John. He back away, out of her reach. "Please, John. I just wanted to keep you safe with me."

"Safe?" John repeated. "Mary, I was a prisoner! I saw no one. I went nowhere. That isn't safe. If it weren't for William…" John's voice trailed off, aware of the illegal nature of the gun locked in his sock drawer. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm going to get my things together, and William's, then we're leaving."

"I won't let you take William." Mary said baldly, sitting back down on the sofa and leaning back with her arms crossed. "I won't let you."

"Which toy can he not sleep without?" John asked. Mary stared at him blankly. "You have no idea, do you, Mary?" John shook his head in disgust. "You've never been a mother to him. You use him as bait to keep me here and now you've hit me in front of him."

"You can't prove anything." Mary hissed. "You can't."

"I learned more from Sherlock Holmes than the 243 types of tobacco ash." John replied, walking over to the tv and pulling the petcam from next to it. "I was worried about William. I didn't know if he was safe with you. Did you download the videos, Greg?"

"Yup." Lestrade chipped in, dropping himself into an armchair and smiling disarmingly. "Some really interesting stuff on there. I can't wait to watch it. I might have to get some popcorn."

"That's not all, either." John said. "There's also A.G.R.A."

"You burned it." Mary gasped. "You threw it in the fire."

"Sherlock took copies." John shot back. "I learned that from Irene Adler. You always need insurance." He waited a second, letting that sink in. "Now, Sally here is going to pop some cuffs on you and take you out to wait in the police car, and you're going to go quietly. Is that clear?"

Mary nodded, staring absently as Sally approached her. John watched as his wife was arrested and led in silence from the house, waiting until he heard the car door close before he dropped down onto the sofa, kissing William on the head and cuddling him desperately.

"What're you gonna do now?" Lestrade asked.

"Is there any chance I can kip on your sofa?" John asked, standing up and placing William into Lestrade's lap.

"I can do one better than that." Lestrade said. "You can have my spare room, for as long as you need it."

John shut the door to Lestrade's spare room as quietly as possible, tiptoeing through the flat and dropping down onto the sofa next to the Detective Inspector.

"Thanks." He said, reaching out and grabbing the whisky glass off the coffee table.

"Thought you needed it." Lestrade told him, taking a sip from his own glass. "Is he down now?"

"Yeah." John said. "He was more than ready for bed before we even got here."

"Are you ok?" Lestrade asked, eyeing him sympathetically. "You've certainly been through it."

"Yeah." John sighed. "Just in shock really. I can't believe I let it get so far."

"You did what you had to do." Lestrade reassured him. "Sometimes it's hard to see how bad a situation is until you're out of it." John nodded, gazing absently at the black TV screen. "What's A.G.R.A.?" Lestrade asked, jolting John out of his thoughts. "Whatever it is we should probably get the copies, just in case."

"There are no copies." John snorted, grinning guiltily at Lestrade. "I just said that to make sure she went quietly."

Lestrade laughed, giggling almost madly at the situation. John looked at him, stunned for a moment, before he collapsed back against the sofa in his own fit of giggles.


	12. Houdini

**Chapter 12 – Houdini**

 **Warning: This chapter includes somebody causing minor injuries to a baby.**

Sherlock cradled Johanna gently against his shoulder as he walked down the stairs from 221B. He knocked on Mrs Hudson's door, pushing it open when he heard her call "Yoohoo!" from inside.

"Oh, look who's here!" Mrs Hudson cooed, reaching out to take the baby from Sherlock as he walked into the kitchen. "How're you, young lady? Is my girl ok today?"

"Why are you asking her?" Sherlock asked as he sat down at the table. "She's one month old. You can't honestly expect her to answer."

"Oh, don't you give me that, young man!" Mrs Hudson chided, swatting at Sherlock with a tea towel. "I hear you chattering away to her all the time up there."

"Yes, well." Sherlock shrugged, flushing slightly. "I'm her father. It's important for her social and linguistic development that she recognises and responds to my voice."

"You tell yourself that, dear." Mrs Hudson chuckled. She passed Johanna back to Sherlock and started to make a cup of tea. "I know you just like talking to her."

Sherlock huffed. "She's good company, I suppose. It's been a long time since I had such a keen audience."

Mrs Hudson smiled sadly, turning around to watch as Sherlock rested his cheek on his daughter's head and dropped a gentle kiss to her soft, dark hair. Johanna's eyes were just beginning to shift in colour, their original dark blue starting to lighten slightly.

"How've you been, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson asked, putting a cut of tea in front of Sherlock. "You've not been yourself lately."

"I'm fine." Sherlock told her. He hesitated, pushing his tea out of the baby's reach and pulling a squeaky toy giraffe from his pocket for her to play with. He held the toy out in front of Johanna, watching as she tried to coordinate her arms and hands to reach for it. He hesitated, looking at Mrs Hudson and wondering how to phrase his question. "What was Mr Hudson like?"

"Frank?" Mrs Hudson asked, surprised. "Oh, he was a bit of a beast, to be honest."

"Why?" Sherlock enquired. "I know the basics but what exactly did he do that made you glad to see your own husband executed? I was under the impression that, even in terrible marriages, most would consider that a bad thing."

Mrs Hudson thought for a moment, eying Sherlock's glinting wedding ring with a frown. "It wasn't just the drugs cartel or the racy dancing. He had a nasty temper on him." She explained as Sherlock sipped his tea. "And quite the right hook to go with it."

"So he hit you." Sherlock asked, his eyes glinting coldly. "Did you ever hit him?"

"No. I wasn't the type for violence." Mrs Hudson replied with a shake of her head. "And I don't think that's the way to solve anything. Me hitting him wouldn't have changed what he'd done, and he shouldn't have hit me in the first place."

"No, he shouldn't." Sherlock sighed. "Husbands shouldn't hit their wives."

An hour later, Sherlock nudged the door to 221B shut with his foot and carried Johanna over to her bouncer. He lay her down in it and picked up his violin, softly playing a composition of his own to try to ease his daughter into sleep. Johanna's eyes had just drifted closed when Janine walked into the room from the bedroom.

"Christ, Sherlock, can you give that a rest?" She huffed. "It's really non-stop with you."

"It helps Johanna sleep." Sherlock replied, pausing for a second but carrying on playing. "I'll stop when she's napping."

"No, you'll stop now." Janine snapped, snatching the violin out of Sherlock's hand. "Christ, why do you have to be so selfish?"

"Selfish?" Sherlock echoed. "I didn't realise looking after our daughter was selfish."

"It is when you're making that racket!" Janine shouted, throwing the violin down onto Sherlock's chair. Sherlock winced as he saw one of the strings snap. Janine ignored him and picked her glass of water up from the coffee table, starting to walk towards the kitchen.

"Where's Johanna's rabbit?" Sherlock asked, looking around the living room for the essential naptime toy.

"I don't know!" Janine roared, turning around and flinging her glass of water blindly in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock instinctively raised his arm to shield his head, but it didn't stop some small, sharp shards hitting his face when the glass shattered. Behind him, he heard Johanna start to howl, and Sherlock turned, freezing when he saw the small cut on her cheek. Some of the glass had landed in the baby bouncer.

His heart pounding, Sherlock rushed forward and lift Johanna from the bouncer, shushing her as soothingly as he could with his own breath coming in frightened pants.

"You hurt her." He whispered, turning his astonished gaze to Janine. "How _dare_ you hurt her!"

"Give her to me!" Janine snapped, snatching Johanna from Sherlock's arms. She held the baby on her shoulder, frantically trying to shush her. "She won't stop! Why won't she stop! It's just a scratch! Just stop, Johanna!"

Sherlock watched, horrified, as Janine gave the infant in her arms a small shake, as though hoping to shake the tears out of her. "JANINE!" He roared, reaching out to steady the screaming baby. He took a deep breath and forced his voice to be steady. "Just calm down before you seriously hurt her. Believe me, you don't want to anyone asking those kinds of questions." Janine froze, staring at Sherlock. "Now," Sherlock continued, holding out a placating hand. "Give her to me. I'll check she's ok and put her down to sleep."

"Ok." Janine said, pushing Johanna into Sherlock's arms. "Just get her to stop screaming."

"I will." Sherlock assured her calmly. "Infants respond well to a deeper voice. If I'm talking it will calm her down. I'll call Mycroft. I had to call him today anyway – it's his birthday."

"Ok." Janine said again. "Just make sure you stay in here when you call him. I don't want you telling him about any of this."

"That's fine." Sherlock said, pulling his phone out and lying down on the sofa with Johanna resting on his chest.

Johanna's cries eased slightly in the time it took Mycroft to answer the phone and Sherlock glanced at Janine out of the corner of his eye. She was sitting in John's chair, watching Sherlock closely.

"Hello, brother mine." Sherlock said airily. "Happy birthday. Have you had lots of cake?"

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "What are you talking about, Sherlock?" He asked, sounding alarmed. "You know perfectly well my birthday was five months ago. What's wrong? Why is Johanna crying? Is everything ok?"

"Not at all, brother dear." Sherlock replied, keeping his voice cheerful. "Johanna's just being a bit fussy. I think she gets more like me every day. She certainly can throw the tantrums."

"Johanna hasn't thrown a tantrum since the day she was born." Mycroft was clearly moving. Sherlock could hear doors opening and closing in the background. "What's going on?"

"No, we wouldn't want her growing up exactly like me, though." Sherlock chuckled, stroking Johanna's head. His heart was still thrumming rapidly in his chest. "I mean, do you remember what I wanted to be when I was a child?"

"Yes." Mycroft replied. "You wanted to be a pirate."

"I know." Sherlock said clearly. "I still think I would have made a good magician, though. I spent most of my childhood watching Houdini, after all."

Sherlock heard Mycroft's breath hitch. "Houdini?" He repeated. Somewhere in the background, a car engine started and Sherlock heard Mycroft open and close a car door. "Anything else?"

"Yes, I'm sure Johanna will make much better choices." Sherlock sighed. "She could be anything at all. A doctor, maybe. Or a police sergeant. Maybe a lawyer or actress, but I don't think so somehow."

"Ok, Sherlock." Mycroft said. Sherlock could hear the car speeding through traffic. "Houdini is go."

"Anyway, I think Johanna's ready for her nap now so enough pointless chatter." Sherlock said. "We'll be turning into goldfish if we keep this up. Have a good birthday, Mycroft. Don't eat too much."

Sherlock hung up the phone, huffing in irritation.

"How's Myc?" Janine asked from across the room. "I haven't seen him in ages."

"Still annoying." Sherlock told her, standing up and carrying the baby towards the bedroom. "He says he didn't do anything special but you could almost smell the chocolate cake from here."

Janine snorted, walking into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Glancing through the bedroom door, she saw Sherlock lie on the bed, resting the baby back on his chest. She sat down at the kitchen table, sipping at her still-too-hot tea and flicking through a magazine absently.

 _CRASH!_

Janine jumped up as the door to the flat was kicked open. Three armed agents burst into the flat, seeking out Janine in seconds and aiming their guns at her.

"Hands up, Mrs Holmes." One of the agents ordered.

"Please don't call her that." Sherlock drawled as he strolled out of the bedroom, an empty holdall in one hand, holding Johanna against his shoulder with the other. "As of tonight, that woman is nothing to do with the Holmes family."

"What happened, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked from the door. He appeared totally calm, leaning casually on his umbrella, but his eyes flicked rapidly around the flat, taking everything in.

"We need to get Johanna's things together." Sherlock said, ignoring the question. "She will need her cot, her clothes, a changing mat, nappies, toiletries, towels, bibs, bottles, milk, toys, pram, car seat, bouncer. Oh, for goodness sake, just bring all of it. I need my things as well."

Mycroft nodded at the unarmed agents coming up the stairs behind him and they rushed off to start gathering everything.

"I take it the marriage is over." Mycroft commented, taking in the cuts on his brother's face before jumping to the glass shattered on the living room floor.

Sherlock sneered angrily. "Forget over. Use your influence, Mycroft. I want every trace of her gone. This time tomorrow she will no longer be my wife. She will have no claim over Johanna. Your agents will take her to a secure location and keep her there. You will take myself and Johanna to hospital and then we will go to your house until every last hint of Janine is gone from this flat."

He turned and carried Johanna out of the flat and down the stairs. At the bottom, Mrs Hudson was looking anxiously up at him.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" She cried. "I heard such a fuss. All crashing and banging and the _shouting_!"

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said, his hands starting to tremble as the adrenaline of the last hour started to leave his system. "Johanna and I am going to stay with Mycroft for a little bit."

"What about Janine?" Mrs Hudson asked. "Is she staying?"

"Absolutely not." Sherlock replied. "She will never come back here again."

"Oh, thank goodness!" Mrs Hudson sighed, patting Sherlock's face affectionately. "I didn't like to say but I never liked her. She reminded me a bit too much of my husband. Too clever, and not in a charming way like you, mind."

"Yes." Sherlock said as Mycroft followed him down the stairs. "She was my Frank."

He gave Mrs Hudson a quick kiss on the cheek before walking with Mycroft out of the house. He was shaking as he climbed into the car, Johanna still held in his arms, and Mycroft climbed in after him.

Mycroft watched for a moment as Sherlock closed his eyes and kissed his daughter again and again.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked quietly after a moment.

"We need to go to the hospital." Sherlock replied, looking up at Mycroft with terrified eyes. "Janine shook her. She shook the baby."


	13. The Hospital

**Chapter 13 – The Hospital**

A/N: Apologies for the short chapter. This is really a bridge chapter but it had to be written.

"How long have you had this planned?" Mycroft asked, watching his brother trembling on the leather seat of the car.

"I hadn't." Sherlock admitted. Johanna seemed to have fallen asleep in his arms adjusted her so that she was cradled in the crook of one arm. "She threw a glass, though, and a bit of it…" He pointed to the cut on the baby's cheek. "Then, Johanna wouldn't stop crying, so she shook her. Obvious. Predictable. I should have known she wouldn't save it all for me."

"You admit she has been abusive, then?" Mycroft whispered.

"Don't!" Sherlock snapped. His shoulders had tensed and his eyes were darting around the car anxiously. "Just don't."

"Ok." Mycroft said. "Well done, by the way?"

"What for?" Sherlock spat. "Getting dragged into a relationship I never wanted in the first place? Letting my wife use me as a punch bag? Letting her force me to…" He shut his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. "Allowing her to harm my daughter?"

"No." Mycroft responded shortly. "For remembering our codewords. You could have deleted them after the fall. I assumed you would have done, once Lazarus was a success. It was a stroke of genius, setting up a conversation to include Houdini. Very creative, especially under extreme stress. I'm quite impressed."

"Yes, well." Sherlock shrugged, opening the door as the car pulled up at the hospital. "Shut up, Mycroft. This much sentiment might make me sick."

Mycroft was able to rush Sherlock and Johanna through triage and they were seen almost straight away by a doctor.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Wilson." The doctor introduced himself, pushing his glasses up his nose. "How can I help you tonight?"

"My wife." Sherlock said. "She shook the baby. And threw some glass. A little piece cut Johanna's cheek."

"And Sherlock will need examining as well." Mycroft cut in. "I suspect he has a number of injuries that may need tending to."

"Johanna first, Mycroft." Sherlock insisted.

The doctor called a nurse over and asked for a cot for Johanna. Sherlock placed her in it gently, tracing his finger down her cheek, and Doctor Wilson leant over the crib, checking the baby's eyes and gently feeling her skull. He moved her arms and legs and delicately palpated her ribs, watching her carefully as he did.

"Right." He said, making a quick note on his chart. "There's no ruptured blood vessels I can see in her eyes and there's no obvious signs of fractures. Has Johanna lost consciousness at all?" Sherlock shook his head. "Any vomiting or lethargy?"

"She's tired." Sherlock replied. "But she's this all happened at bedtime so she hasn't had her usual sleep routine."

"Ok." Said Doctor Wilson. "And there's been no fits or floppiness?"

"No." Sherlock told him. "She just cried after it happened until she fell asleep in the car. I've been watching closely. Her heart and respiratory rates are in the normal range soon after prolonged crying. She has been making her usual vocalisations and was able to focus on my face from a distance of 8 inches as normal."

"Brilliant." Doctor Wilson chuckled, his eyebrows raised in astonishment. "I see you know what you're doing." He made a note on his chart. "I'm going to arrange a full body x-ray and a CT scan, just to make sure there's no broken bones or bleeding around Johanna's brain. I'm afraid, because this is deliberate injury to a child, we'll also have to photograph any injuries."

"I will go with Johanna." Mycroft said, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, you get your own injuries seen to. Keep me updated and I will let you know where to meet me when you are done."

It took two hours for Sherlock to finish with his own treatment and, when he sat down next to Mycroft in radiology, Johanna was still having a CT scan.

"Is everything ok?" Mycroft asked, eying the butterfly bandages on Sherlock's cut face.

"Fine." Sherlock replied stiffly. "They mostly cleaned up some older wounds and popped a few stitches into some of them."

"Older wounds?" Mycroft repeated. "How old are we talking?"

"Some a couple of weeks, some a couple of days." Sherlock shrugged. He saw Mycroft's raised eyebrow, though, and elaborated with a flush. "My back and legs, among other places. She was fond of that riding crop. I'm thinking of burning it." Mycroft simply smiled grimly.

They finally left the hospital at nearly two o'clock in the morning. The doctors had found no signs of trauma to Johanna, although Sherlock was given a long list of symptoms to watch carefully for ("How am I supposed to look out for vomiting? She spits up at least once most meals!"). By the time they arrived at Mycroft's house, Johanna's belongings were set up in one of the spare rooms, along with a selection of Sherlock's things.

"Is she ok?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock came back downstairs from putting Johanna to bed.

"She seems fine." Sherlock replied, putting the baby monitor on the coffee table and sinking into an armchair. "Somehow."

"What about you?" Mycroft prodded. "There seems to have been significant injury to you, as well. Were any of them…"

"Were any of them _what_ , Mycroft?" Sherlock interrupted hotly, his eyes narrowed.

Mycroft hesitated, pinching his nose in exasperation before continuing. "Was there any sexual assault?"

"We're not talking about this!" Sherlock snarled, standing up and storming to lean on the fireplace.

"I'll take that as a yes." Mycroft said sadly. "Was everything treated adequately?"

"Fine." Sherlock bit out. "They have taken various samples for tests and I am to return in three months to repeat those tests. As Johanna is entirely healthy, though, it is most unlikely that HIV is a concern."

"That's something I suppose." Mycroft mumbled. "Now, let's make Mummy proud and be properly English about all of this. Would you like a cup of tea?"


	14. I Thought You Were Happy

**Chapter 14 – I Thought You Were Happy**

In the days following the implosion of his marriage, Sherlock fell into a set routine at Mycroft's house. He would look after Johanna, making sure he fed her, changed her, bathed her, rested her and played with her. Every day, Mycroft would take her out for a walk, usually to Regent's Park, but Sherlock never left the house.

"Would you like to come with us?" Mycroft asked after two weeks of this routine.

"No, thank you." Sherlock replied, not moving from his space on the sofa. "I'm sure you can cope just fine."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft hesitated. "I'm sure you'd like to see it. We have started stopping at different plants to look at. Johanna seems to quite enjoy it. She even smiled yesterday when I showed her the flowers on a fuchsia bush."

"She is seven weeks old." Sherlock said dully. "She is started to see different colours. I'm sure it was just the difference between the red and green that intrigued her. Nothing I can't achieve by showing her some of her toys. Either that or it was wind. Perhaps your constant yammering was upsetting her digestion."

"You're missing out, Sherlock." Mycroft implored. "Your daughter is changing so much and you are missing it while you hide away here."

"Just go, Mycroft." The detective replied, rolling over to face the back of the sofa. "I'll be fine here."

Mycroft stared down at his little brother, sighing deeply. He didn't know how yet, but somehow, he had to find a way to drag his brother out of this black mood.

An hour later, Mycroft pushed Johanna's pram carefully back into the living room. His niece had finally fallen asleep as they walked back from the park, just on time for her afternoon nap. He had discovered, over the last fortnight, that nothing worked better for helping a baby fall asleep than a walk through London. He supposed it was some combination of the traffic noise and the motion that helped her drift off.

"She's asleep." He whispered as he walked up to Sherlock, still lying on the sofa. "Would you like to put her to bed?"

Sherlock slowly dragged himself to his feet, coming to look down at Johanna in the pram. "No." He replied, smiling slightly at her. "There's no point disturbing her if she's comfortable there. She'll just fuss and it will be impossible to get her back to sleep."

"Just like her father." Mycroft commented. "You were a nightmare to get to sleep as a baby."

"What do you mean 'as a baby'?" Sherlock quipped. "I still am."

"Very true." Mycroft said, easing the pram into a space next to an armchair, closing the thick, red curtains and putting the lights on dimly. "Tea?"

"Mmm." Sherlock hummed, dropping back onto the sofa and muttering "Can't you put that on silent or something?" as Mycroft's mobile phone rang.

Mycroft ignored him, walking into the kitchen to answer the phone. His eyebrows rose in surprise as he saw the caller ID.

"Detective Inspector?" He answered, holding the phone with his shoulder as he filled the kettle. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Evening Mycroft." Lestrade greeted the other man, his voice sounding tired and stressed.

"Is everything ok, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked. Lestrade didn't answer and Mycroft felt his concern growing. "Gregory? What is it?"

"I don't really know what I'm going to ask." Lestrade confessed. Even over the phone Mycroft thought he could hear the other man rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I've never even considered asking for something like this."

Mycroft poured water into the pot and put it on a tray alongside two cups and grabbed a small jug of milk from the fridge. "Well," He said, picking the tray up and carrying it into the living room. "I may be a Holmes, but even I can't help you unless you tell me what it is you need."

"I need you to make somebody disappear." Lestrade blurted out. "Permanently."

Mycroft froze halfway through passing a cup to Sherlock. He straightened up sharply, barely noticing as Sherlock scowled and pulled the cup from his hand.

"Detective Inspector, are you asking me to have somebody executed?"

Sherlock's eyes shot to meet Mycroft's, wide and sharp with alarm.

"No." Lestrade insisted. "I'm not. I just, I need you to find something to do with her that means she'll never come back here again."

"I see." Mycroft said, sitting down next to Sherlock. "And who exactly is it you want me to dispose of?"

"It's Mary."

There was silence for a moment as Mycroft froze, sure he must have somehow misunderstood.

"Mary?" He repeated. "Mary Watson?"

Beside him, Sherlock dropped his mug and Mycroft held up an insistent hand to silence him. "What has happened?" Mycroft asked urgently, physically holding Sherlock's hands still as he scrambled desperately to get to the phone. He listened for a moment before replying. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Do not move and don't tell anybody – _anybody_ – about this phone call."

Mycroft hung up, holding his phone in numb fingers for a moment.

"What's going on?" Sherlock demanded, glaring at him. "Does he want you to kill _Mary_?"

"Stay here." Mycroft ordered, standing up and pocketing his phone. "I don't know what's going on but it is important that you leave this to me for now." Sherlock glared at him rebelliously. "I mean it, Sherlock!" Mycroft continued. "I don't know what's going on yet and until I do you can't go rushing in without all the facts. Now, you need to stay here and make sure Johanna is ok. That is your first priority, agreed?"

"Agreed." Sherlock said reluctantly. "Just, promise me you'll call. As soon as you know what's going on."

"Of course." Mycroft nodded, picking up his umbrella from beside the door. "I'll be quick, little brother. I promise."

Lestrade opened the door almost immediately when Mycroft rang the doorbell. He ushered the eldest Holmes brother quietly into the house, closing the door as gently as possible as he led the other man into the living room.

"Good lord." Mycroft exclaimed as he stepped into the room. "Is everybody having babies these days?"

Lestrade laughed, his eyes falling on William asleep in his baby bouncer. "Don't panic." He said, sitting down on the sofa and indicating Mycroft should do the same. "That's William."

"William?" Mycroft queried.

"John's son." Lestrade explained with a frown. "I assumed you and Sherlock would know about him."

"No." Mycroft said bluntly. "Sherlock was never informed of the baby's arrival."

"Oh." Lestrade said dumbly. "Dunno what that's about. It'll probably have something to do with everything that's been going on, though."

"And what has been going on, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft demanded. "The way I see it, the good doctor ceased all contact with my brother and ran off to play happy families."

"It wasn't his choice." Lestrade said bluntly. "John was pretty much forced to cut off from all of us."

Mycroft glanced around the flat, taking in the numerous baby toys, the medical journal on the coffee table, the laptop on the armchair.

"John is living here." He observed, starting to connect the dots. "Mary. She made him abandon Sherlock?"

"Yup." Lestrade said, pouring himself a glass of scotch and offering one to Mycroft, who nodded thoughtfully.

"She was abusive?" Mycroft asked, leaning back on the sofa with a sigh. "Mary I mean?"

"Not physically." John entered the room, putting a shopping bag down by the door. "They had no Corona." He said to Lestrade. "I got Sol instead."

"What has happened, John?" Mycroft asked. "I understand your wedded bliss turned out less blissful than one might have hoped."

"That's an understatement." John chuckled, sitting down in his armchair. "I don't really know what happened. By the time I realised what was going on I had no job, no friends and no way I could see of getting out. I finally decided enough was enough when she hit me. The fact that she did it in front of William just cemented my decision."

"It is amazing." Mycroft commented, standing up as William started to fuss. "People will take an astonishing level of abuse against their own person, but as soon as their children are in danger, no force on this earth will stop them fighting for a way out. May I?"

John nodded, watching as Mycroft picked up a crying William with surprising ease. He rocked him gently on his shoulder, pulling his tie out from his waistcoat and using it to tickle the baby's nose until he stopped crying and reached for the tie.

"Funny." John commented, watching the scene in surprise. "I wouldn't expect you to be good at that. You are though."

"I am getting astonishingly good at understanding babies, Doctor Watson." Mycroft said, sitting down on the sofa with the baby on his lap. He grabbed a colourful fabric book from the coffee table and held it out for William to play with.

"How is the baby?" Lestrade asked casually. "I nearly fell through the floor when I heard about her."

"Sorry, what baby?" John asked, clearly lost. Mycroft ignored him, fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket.

"She's doing very well." Mycroft held the phone out to Lestrade to show him. "She smiles now, especially if you clap her hands for her. The crying, though. My god, the crying."

John chuckled. "You have a baby?" He asked, astonished. "How old is she?"

"She is seven weeks old today." Mycroft replied, watching John closely, assessing him carefully.

"And she's not Mycroft's." Lestrade cut in. He looked confused. "I thought you'd know."

"Know what?" John asked. The atmosphere had grown tense and he looked in confusion between Mycroft and Lestrade.

"She is my niece." Mycroft supplied. "I can assure you I was as shocked as anybody when Sherlock told me he had fathered a child."

"No." John said. "Sorry, no way. Sherlock has a baby?"

"I assumed you knew." Lestrade said. "Sherlock sent me a picture when she was born but I haven't heard from him since."

"How did this happen?" John demanded, reaching over to grab Mycroft's phone and staring down at the picture. There was no denying the baby in the photograph was Sherlock's. She already had a head of thick, black hair and her eyes were exactly the same shape as the detective's.

"I'm assuming I don't need to explain the birds and the bees to you, Doctor Watson." Mycroft said sharply.

"Shut up, Mycroft." John muttered. "Who's the mother?"

Mycroft hesitated. He thought for a moment, wondering how much to explain. "I'm afraid Sherlock has been through a rather difficult time this last year."

"What do you mean, difficult?" Lestrade asked.

"Sherlock and Johanna are living with me for now." Mycroft said. "I knew there was something wrong. When I think of how terrible things actually were, I wonder if I should have intervened even when Sherlock asked me not to."

"What happened?" John asked. He could see the guilt and worry in Mycroft's face and it reminded him so much of that day on the plane he knew what he was about to hear would be truly awful.

"Sherlock's wife was torturing him." Mycroft told them, his face stiff with cold anger.

"His wife?" John spluttered. "Sherlock got married? What the hell have I missed?"

"It seems Sherlock did not cope well when you disappeared." Mycroft explained. "I don't say this to make you feel guilty. I just think you would do well to have all of the facts. Janine offered him comfort; a way to distract him from what he was feeling. Sherlock doesn't cope well with emotions, so when he found himself suddenly lonely and depressed and fighting to stay clean after such an overwhelming relapse, he accepted her offer. As much as the idea of sex has always alarmed him, he was willing to try anything to stop his thoughts and feelings. Janine became pregnant quite quickly, I suspect deliberately, and insisted Sherlock 'did the right thing'. I don't know when the violence started, but I suspect it was very early in the relationship."

"Why didn't he say anything?" Lestrade asked, knocking back his scotch and pouring another glass. "Why didn't he throw her out and never look back?"

"I suspect Sherlock felt he deserved it, at least to some degree." Mycroft said. "He knows that he is difficult to live with, so if he did or said something inappropriate or insensitive, he assumed that his behaviour warranted her violence. From there, though, it escalated to a level which even he, in his emotionally damaged and socially unaware manner, could not justify. By that point, however, Janine was pregnant and Sherlock stayed to protect his unborn child."

"What happened, though?" John prompted, looking nauseous. "What changed?"

"She hurt their daughter." Mycroft said grimly. "She hurt the baby accidentally and, when she wouldn't stop crying, she shook her to make her stop."

"Fucking hell." John cursed furiously. "Is she ok?"

"She is fine." Mycroft assured him. "Sherlock contacted me immediately. He used one of our codewords from his meeting with Moriarty. Houdini. That was the codeword we agreed he would use if his encounter with Moriarty went so badly wrong he needed to be rescued immediately. I took them both to hospital. Johanna is fine, but Sherlock is still not good."

"What's wrong with him?" John asked.

"He has injuries which are still healing." Mycroft said. "Wounds that had to be stitched which are still tender. He also…" The government agent paused for a moment, thinking carefully. "He seems depressed. I take Johanna out every day but Sherlock refuses to leave the house. I think he may be frightened to leave. My house is the first place he has been safe in a year. Even his own home was a war zone for him. I think, after everything that has happened, he doesn't feel safe leaving that sanctuary."

"I want to see him." John said firmly. "Tonight. Now."

"Are you sure, John?" Mycroft asked. His eyes met Lestrade's, and both felt a sudden rush of hope. "If you go to see him and then disappear again…"

"I won't." John assured him. "I promise. I never stopped caring about him. I even lied to my wife to make sure our son was a living tribute to Sherlock."

"How so?" Asked Mycroft.

"His name." John explained. "Sherlock told me his name that day at the airport. I know Mary hadn't heard – she wasn't standing close enough. So I called him William. William Scott Watson. After Sherlock."

"Very touching." Mycroft smiled, looking at the babbling baby in his lap. "Especially when you consider what Sherlock named his daughter. Johanna Martha Mycah Holmes. Johanna is a feminine form of the name John."

Mycroft stood up, handing William to John. "I suggest you come with me, Doctor Watson." He nodded at Lestrade. "Gregory, I believe I have a deep cover mission in Eastern Europe that may suit the person we were discussing earlier. I was going to give the job to Sherlock after the Magnussen incident, but I believe our friend would be much better suited to the job."

Mycroft let John and William into the house, closing the door and allowing John to follow him into the living room. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV. Johanna was cradled in his arms, staring up at him and chewing his finger as her father explained what was happening in the episode of Peppa Pig they were watching.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called, not taking his eyes off the television. "Have you seen the sleepsuit with the butterflies? Poor Johanna is wearing the hideous daisy covered thing you bought her and she isn't very…"

Sherlock had turned to look at his brother and froze midsentence, staring at the doctor in the door to the living room.

"John…" The detective breathed, standing up carefully and holding the baby against his shoulder. "What are you…"

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." John apologised, stepping into the room and gazing at the baby in his friend's arms. "I had no idea."

"Mycroft has told you." Sherlock spat coldly. "You needn't have come here out of pity. I'm sure your wife is waiting at home for you."

"Mary is gone." John cut in. "I should have known after what she did to you, but it turns out taking her back was the stupidest thing I've ever done."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, looking suspiciously at the doctor before glancing curiously at Mycroft. "What has she done?"

John smiled sadly. "It's not really surprising her and Janine were such good friends." He said, his heart throbbing painfully as Sherlock flinched at his wife's name. "They were astonishingly similar, really."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to meet John's, understanding crashing down on him. "You too?" He croaked.

"'Fraid so." John shrugged. "It wasn't the same as you. Less physical and more psychological but, yeah, it was, well, it was pretty awful."

Sherlock watched as William yawned widely and started to fuss in John's arms. "Does he need to sleep?" He asked. "He can share with Johanna. I'm about to put her to bed anyway."

"Yeah." John replied, following Sherlock up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Johanna's cot was next to the door, a simple moon and stars mobile hanging over the top of it. Hanging over the side was a simple white sleepsuit with butterflies embroidered across the chest. Sherlock snorted as he spotted, muttering "I knew Mycroft had it." He laid Johanna on the bed, taking her flowery sleepsuit off and putting the other one on with practised ease. Turning around, he saw John waiting patiently for him.

"Will he be ok with the mobile playing?" Sherlock asked, laying Johanna down and indicating that John should put William in the other end. "She can't sleep without it."

"No, that's fine." John said, watching Sherlock flick the switch to start the mobile.

They watched for a few minutes as the two babies stared up at them. Gradually, both babies' sleepy blinks grew longer until they were both sleeping peacefully. Sherlock grabbed the baby monitor from the windowsill and dimmed the light before leading John back down the stairs.

"I thought you were having a girl." Sherlock said, sitting down at the kitchen table. Somebody, probably Mycroft, had laid out two mugs of tea for them.

"The scan was wrong." John said. He hesitated before continuing. "I called him William. William Scott."

Sherlock stared, his brow furrowed in slight confusion, much as it had been when John had asked him to be his best man.

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered, clearing his throat awkwardly. "That… that's… it's good. It means a lot."

"You mean a lot." John said vehemently. "Even when I couldn't see you, when I wasn't able to contact you, you were always my best friend. You never stopped meaning the world to me."

Sherlock looked down into his tea, a thick lump in his throat.

"I thought you were happy." He croaked sadly, furiously scrubbing at his eyes as a tear escaped. "I thought, now you had a wife and a real baby, you didn't need me anymore. I thought you'd realised I was too dangerous."

"Never." John said, reaching across the table and grabbing Sherlock's hand firmly. "You saved my life so many times. I think I'll always need you. And I'm not going anywhere ever again." Sherlock nodded, looking down at their hands. "I mean it, Sherlock. You're childish and awkward and so unaware of human nature and, yeah sometimes you're a bit of a dick. But that's the way you are and I wouldn't change you for the world. You're my best friend and we're going to figure this out together, ok?"

Sherlock nodded again, smiling weakly. "Together."


	15. Small Steps

**Chapter 15 – Small Steps**

John returned to visit Sherlock the next day and was surprised to find the detective alone at his brother's house.

"Where is everyone?" John asked as he dropped down on the armchair opposite Sherlock's seat on the sofa.

"At the park." Sherlock replied dully. "Mycroft takes Johanna every day."

John stared at his friend, thinking hard. "Do you ever go with them?"

Sherlock ignored him, only glancing at him briefly before flopping down to lie on his back.

"You can't stay here forever, Sherlock." John continued, trying to keep his frustration out of his voice. "You need to start moving on from this."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" Sherlock demanded, suddenly furious. "How do I just move on when every time I even hear somebody in high heels walk down the pavement outside I tense up? Every little reminder has become crippling!"

"So you think hiding from those reminders will make everything ok?" John challenged, frowning when Sherlock just ignored him again. "What about Johanna? What if she looks like Janine when she's a little older? Will she become another reminder for you to hide away from?"

"She's different." Sherlock mumbled. "She will be nothing like Janine."

"Exactly." John pressed on. "So you need to start working through this, for her sake. That baby is completely innocent. She doesn't deserve to have a father who will only spend time with her hidden behind the walls of his brother's house."

Sherlock rolled onto his side to look at John. "What would you suggest then, Doctor?" He asked, his voice mocking but his eyes genuine and scared.

"We'll go together tomorrow." John suggested. "You, me, William and Johanna. We'll go to the park together and take it from there."

When John arrived at Mycroft's house the next day, he found Sherlock anxiously pacing the living room, his hair dishevelled and his eyes darting frantically around the room.

"I don't think this is a good idea, John." Sherlock insisted, glancing nervously at the windows overlooking the street.

"It is, Sherlock." John responded, lifting William out of his pram and smiling down at Johanna in her bouncer. "You need to start taking your life back."

"Have you?" Sherlock asked. He was looking at John with a suddenly vulnerable look in his eyes. "Have you taken your life back?"

John hesitated, thinking hard. "I'm starting to." He admitted after a moment. "I've been seeing a therapist for the last couple of weeks. Let's not forget either, I've been here before. Twice. I've had my life fall apart around me and I've had to piece it all back together again. I know from experience that the worst thing I can do is lock myself away and let my misery take over my life. The first time that ended with me keeping a loaded gun in my drawer. The second time ended with me marrying a psychopath."

Sherlock stared out of the window, watching people walking past as he considered John's words. "I've always been able to trust my ability to read people." He said after a moment. "Always. With her, though, it was like my mind didn't work. I didn't want to see her for what she was. I never saw that she would hurt Johanna. _How could I not see?_ "

"You were desperate." John told him bluntly. "You were so miserable and so alone you probably did see, but were so desperate for any kind of comfort you deleted what you had seen before you'd even recognised it for what it was. Now, though, you need to start thinking about how you move on. You need to stop letting her control you, because if you stay here, if you let her keep you hidden away and broken, then she wins."

Sherlock pondered this for a moment, his verdigris eyes searching John's face for any sign of a lie. "Johanna will need feeding." He said after a moment. "Before we go."

John smiled widely, shifting William slightly on his hip. "No problem. William wouldn't be happy if we went out without giving him his lunch either."

Sherlock lifted Johanna out of her bouncer and they walked through into the kitchen together.

"You can use the high chair." The detective said, waving his free hand nonchalantly towards the wooden high chair next to the fridge. "Johanna's still too small."

"Thanks." John said, lowering his son into the chair and pulling it gently over to the table.

"Will you hold her for a moment?" Sherlock asked, holding Johanna out for John to take. "I need to heat her milk."

John nodded, taking Johanna from her father and cradling her in his arms. He smiled down at her, taking in her wide, blue eyes and her dark hair, just starting to curl in thin wisps on her still soft head. He couldn't believe she was real, that Sherlock had made this beautiful little girl, had raised her and protected her with everything he had. He vowed then to never let anybody's calls of 'psychopath' or 'sociopath' go unchallenged again.

Looking up, John saw Sherlock staring at him, a bottle held forgotten in his hand. "What?" The doctor asked, bemused.

"I don't let anyone hold her." Sherlock explained breathily, still staring. "Only Mycroft. I wouldn't even let the doctor at the hospital hold her. I didn't even think about it now, though."

"Well you know me, don't you?" John said, shrugging. "You trust me."

"I trust Molly and Lestrade as well." Sherlock countered. "I still don't think I'd let them hold her yet."

"Give it time." John smiled, lifting Johanna to rest on his shoulder as she began to fuss. "You'll get there."

Sherlock nodded, turning back to heat the water in a pan of water. "Would William like anything?" He asked, pulling a plastic spoon out of a drawer. "Some milk? Solid food?"

"A bottle of water would be good." John told him. "And a slice of toast if you've got some."

"Any fruit?" Sherlock asked as he grabbed bread from the cupboard and dropped a piece into the toaster. "Vitamins are important for a balanced diet and a healthy digestive system. And Mycroft has just about everything you can think of, the posh sod."

"Pot meet kettle." John snorted, grinning at Sherlock before clearing his throat. "If there's any banana and strawberry that'd be great. He loves them."

Sherlock nodded, taking the requested fruit from the fridge, taking the stalks off a couple of strawberries and slicing a small banana into chunks before putting them on a plate. The toast popped just as he handed them to John and he turned around quickly, using a towel to take Johanna's bottle out of the pan on the way to get the toast. As it cooled, he quickly filled a second bottle with water and passed it to John before returning to butter and slice the toast.

"When did you become such a pro in the kitchen?" John asked, slightly stunned.

"Not much choice." Sherlock shrugged, sitting down next to John with the toast and Johanna's bottle. He rolled his sleeve up and squirted a drop of milk onto his forearm before sucking it off and taking Johanna from John. He watched carefully as he eased the teat of the bottle into his daughter's mouth, smiling as she started suckling hungrily, before looking back at John. "Janine never… She said it was character building for me to look after everybody else for a change."

John shook his head, passing a piece of toast to William, who squashed it happily in his fist and started munching sloppily on the corner. The more he heard about Sherlock's marriage to Janine, the angrier he got. She had taken advantage of Sherlock, bullied and manipulated him, and, somehow, Sherlock had come to think it was due to him.

John opened the door, pushing William's pram out and turning to face Sherlock, waiting patiently. "You can do this, Sherlock." He encouraged, nodding as Sherlock took a step closer to the door with the pram in front of him, held in a white-knuckled grip. "Just a couple more steps and the worst is over."

Sherlock took a deep breath, glancing up and down the street before stepping quickly out into the sunlight, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"Brilliant." John said, taking Sherlock's hand and starting to walk towards the park. "I'm really proud of you, you know. I know that was hard."

Sherlock didn't answer. He squeezed John's hand in an almost painful grip as, together, each pushing a pram with one hand, they walked, still hand in hand, towards the park.


End file.
